


Stuck in Arrivals

by JessamyGriffith



Category: Cabin Pressure, In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Angst and Humor, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Happy Ending, Partially Deceased Syndrome, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-Zombie Apocalypse, Recovery, Temporary Character Death, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-02-25 10:21:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 55,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2618345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessamyGriffith/pseuds/JessamyGriffith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carolyn has a clever business model for MJN Air that will take advantage of the reintegration of Partially Deceased Syndrome sufferers back into society. Douglas has regrets. Arthur has his usual cheerful lookout on life... and Martin? Has issues. And really, really needs a job.</p><p> An AU Cabin Pressure fusion with In The Flesh, starting from before the inception of MJN.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Second Lives and Second Chances

**Author's Note:**

> All character deaths are temporary, so any unhappiness felt by readers will be short-lived.
> 
> Lest you worry that Partially Deceased Syndrome sufferer equals zombie... It doesn't, not really. For one, there's a cure! I recommend 'In The Flesh' for their original twist on the genre.
> 
> Presented with thanks to alcyone, madnina and alltoseek for their beta work, and to feikoi for the seed of the idea which kicked the story off!

**Stuck in Arrivals**

**(With a Contested Return Ticket)**

 

 

**December 20th, 2009**

“No, no, just a little bit more, come on…” In spite of Martin’s pleading, the engine coughed and died. He used the last of the van’s impetus to guide it to the side of the road. Groaning, he thumped his head on the wheel. Typical.

Martin was grateful to have the van - it was his last legacy from his father. Martin’s heart ached whenever he looked in the rear view mirror and saw the racks that formerly housed the equipment for his dad’s electrician work. It had been six months since his father’s death and some days he missed him so badly, it was all he could do to concentrate on everyday activities. Martin knew if his father could see him now, he’d only cluck his tongue in sympathy and lend him some money. But it was disheartening that Martin could scarcely afford the petrol to keep his dad’s beloved old girl on the road. He grimaced and pulled out his phone.

No reception. He waved it about, sighed in relief when a bar showed and began to punch in his mom’s number. The bar disappeared. He groaned and held it up again to no avail. It was a sorry, cheap excuse for a phone that dropped calls and required complete motionlessness to connect at all, but it was all he was able to afford after being ‘laid off’ from his job piloting. Martin mentally heaped invective on the phone and his former company equally. Being laid off these days meant, “Fare thee well and here’s a form reference letter for your CV. Sorry about cutting your probationary period short. Downsizing. You know how it is.”

God. He’d tried so _hard_ at that company, but his social awkwardness had made it difficult to get on with his co-workers. And now here he was - jobless and freezing in a dead van with the few belongings that were worth keeping in boxes in the back. His old room back home was waiting for him, but moving back in with his mother at his age? Pathetic. He turned the ignition key, hoping for at least a whiff of petrol vapour to carry him. The engine only made a sad grinding noise, trying to turn over. “Fuck!” He wrenched the keys out, zipped his coat up to his chin and got out.

He stood with one hand tucked in a pocket and the other freezing around his phone as he held it aloft, trying to catch reception. The thing taunted him with flickering bars that disappeared when he brought it down to the level needed for conversation instead of shouting at it from an arm’s length. “Bugger, bugger!” Automobile lights appeared. He waved an arm, trying to flag the vehicle down but it blew by, leaving him shivering in an icy blast of air. He gritted his teeth and looked at his mobile again, only to find it had powered off. “No, no, no!” It wouldn’t power up, apparently having decided the December chill was too much for its puny battery. He contemplated flinging it into a field for the satisfaction it would bring, wavered, and thrust it into a pocket, curling and uncurling his stiff fingers.

A lovely walk on a frigid winter’s eve it was, then. If he walked towards central Wokingham, he might flag a car. It’d be an hour’s walk to a payphone if no one stopped, though. Should he just head to his mom’s house? Still an hour or so of walking, either way.

Home, then. He set a brisk pace, hoping the exertion would warm him. He began to jog when he saw headlights in the distance but slowed when the distant vehicle turned off down another road. He exhaled, the mist of disappointment fading quickly. Knowing his luck, he’d be walking the entire way home. His mother would be concerned and he didn’t want to worry her. It had been six months since his dad’s death, and her grief sometimes welled up into over-protective motherly fretfulness. He sighed, hunching his shoulders into his jacket.

A rustling in a hedgerow caught his attention. A cat? Poor thing, stuck outside on a night like this. “Miaow? Kitty, kitty,” he called, grinning to himself at his own foolishness. There was a loud crack, as of a large branch breaking. Martin’s steps slowed, stopped. He turned towards the noise, squinting into the dimness. Couldn’t be a cat, that was too loud. “Hello?” A low grunt was his sole reply.

Dry vegetation crackled again. Martin swallowed. “H-hello? Is someone there? Don’t - don’t mess about.” He took a step back as the hedge crackled, dry branches snapping away.

A figure pushed through and stepped into the road. The head lifted and it looked at Martin, face expressionless.

But the eyes. The _eyes,_ they were…

What was wrong with its eyes?

 

 

**Two months earlier**

Gordon looked at the doctor with barely-concealed loathing. Not this again, the damned vulture.

“No. Carolyn already said she didn’t want this. Are you an actual moron? His records show he was on a list to _receive_ a liver, not give his away!”

“Mr Shappey, having hepatitis C doesn’t preclude donating to others who have the same virus,” the doctor said. "There are other organs -"

“I said _no_.” His voice was over-loud in the quiet corridor. A passing orderly gave him a wary glance and Gordon lowered his voice. “You’re not getting my consent, verbal or otherwise. And don’t bother Carolyn with this again. Try anything underhanded afterwards, you’ll have my lawyers on your hospital in a flash. You won’t like them, Doctor. Some of them are actual flesh-eaters. My boy will leave the hospital with everything - _everything_ he came in with.”

Everything except the most important thing, he thought. Gordon thrust away the stab of pain at the reminder and growled, “Now that’s sorted, let’s get on with this.” He ignored the thickening in his throat and opened the door.

The steady beep of the heart monitor stitched into the silence and warm lighting of the room. Carolyn didn’t spare him a glance, eyes trained on the still figure in the bed. Arthur’s lax fingers lay in hers.

“What now?” she asked.

“Nothing important. Doctor Fielding was only asking about organ donation.” His glare at the doctor warned him not to open his mouth.

“He can’t donate anyway. Not since the chimpanzee.”

Gordon emitted the ghost of chuckle. “Right. Bad luck there.”

“Only Arthur.”

The fond words were belied by a bleak tone. Lucky wasn’t how Gordon would describe Arthur’s life. As frustrating as Gordon had found Arthur’s cheery lack of mental acuity, he’d always had a spot in his heart that was only Arthur’s. His first boy. Though Gordon didn’t regret divorcing Carolyn, as acrimonious as their marriage had become, he was sorry for the damage done to Arthur. Gordon had gone on to a fresh marriage, and the guilt and relief of leaving his slow-witted son with Carolyn had made him even more impatient with the boy. The wariness in Arthur’s eyes when they crossed paths had never left, even though he was now twenty-nine years old. Old enough not to need his old dad, one would think. The memory of how Gordon had rolled his eyes at Arthur’s gift of holiday-themed Toblerone the last time they met had shame curling in his chest.

Arthur never stopped trying to make people happy - it was his very nature. Gordon knew he didn’t deserve Arthur’s attempts to please his him. He'd left Arthur behind in the divorce, comforting himself with the thought that at least Arthur had his mother. Now neither he nor Carolyn would have Arthur. Gordon still had his other family. He tried to smother the flicker of relief at the thought.

“Budge up, Caro, there’s a girl,” he said, pulling over a chair. She shifted, not relinquishing her grip on Arthur's hand. He put a hand on Arthur’s thigh, feeling the warmth of it through the blanket. Poor Arthur. Broken bones and surgery and ICU for the coma and _more_ surgery, then - more bad luck - an embolism during the last bout under the knife. Undetected, leading to a major stroke. Brain death. And that... was it. The cheerful presence that was Arthur Shappey no longer existed.

The hospital was still getting a lawsuit, like it or not, Gordon decided. He patted his son’s leg uselessly. It was thinner - almost two months not moving would do that to a body. The scars from the auto accident had healed to red lines. He didn’t look too bad, really, Gordon thought. Arthur could’ve still pulled those ridiculous Pony Club girls he was so susceptible to. They would’ve thought he looked dashing or something ridiculous. He shouldn’t be here in this damned bed, more quiet and still than Gordon had ever seen him in his life.

All the _would haves_ and _could haves._ It was such a damned waste.

Gordon cleared his throat. “Carolyn.”

“I’m not ready,” was her immediate response.

 _Neither am I_ , he thought. "I know. But... it’s time. You’ve been hanging on for a miracle for a month now. You’ll end up in hospital yourself at this rate. He… He’s not here any more.”

“I keep telling myself that,” Carolyn said. Her gaze never left her son's pale profile. “But I look at him and he looks alive. He’s warm. His heart is beating. So forgive me the reluctance at being told that I - we have to make the choice to make that stop. To let him…”

“To let him go.”

Her hand gripped Arthur’s harder, rubbing it between her fingers as if to reassure herself that he was still with them.

“We have to, love, it’s not right,” Gordon said. “He won’t wake up, he’ll be in hospital forever and one day he’ll catch pneumonia or similar... “

“I don’t know,” she said and Gordon couldn’t stand this, being racked any more over this terrible choice.

“Carolyn, please.” The tone of his voice caught her and she looked at him, the terrible grief in her eyes softening in acknowledgement of his own. “Please. It’s time,” was all he could manage.

She looked away, head dropping in an abbreviated nod, the smallest assent she could make. Gordon nodded to the doctor. Carolyn moved up to the head of the bed and pressed a kiss to Arthur’s pale cheek. “Arthur. You are the best thing that ever came into my life, my brightest joy. I hope you know that. I love you.” She cupped his face, eyes memorising well-loved features, the arcs of dark lashes covering the brown eyes Gordon hadn’t seen in weeks. She smoothed a stray lock of hair back from his face.

Gordon took Arthur’s hand in both of his. “Arthur.” His voice cracked and ground. “Son. Good bye. Your dad will miss you.”

The nurse removed the mask and turned off the ventilator. Arthur’s chest fell as his last breath left him. Carolyn’s fingers never stopped carding through the wavy brown hair over Arthur’s forehead as the heart monitor’s rate slowed, stopped.

Gordon looked to the doctor, who gave a single nod. Gordon placed a hand on Carolyn’s shoulder, feeling the cracked porcelain tension of it ready to shatter. But she didn’t. That was the wonder of Carolyn, that strength. He’d butted up against it often enough in their marriage. Gordon only hoped it was enough to sustain her through the lonely years ahead of her. But for now he only clasped her shoulder as they looked at the still form of their son. Her only child.

“Arthur,” Carolyn breathed.

Gordon squeezed his eyes shut at the world of loss in that name.

 

 

**December, 2009**

Dark. Dark. DARK. He raises hands and feels pressure against his hands, something above, to both sides, he can’t straighten his arms. _Hungry. Hungry._ He pushes and the surface above groans and cracks. Something falls on his face and he sniffs the heady scent of earth. _Dark. Get out. Out_. His fingers scrabble, squeeze into the crack and wrench. Splintering sounds, more dirt and it’s a womb, he must get out. Free. _Hunger._ Tearing, digging, thrusting dull limbs into soft earth, squeezing and kicking, sharp things poking into his hands that are dragged away as he forces them through a dark passage.

 _Out. Out_. Open air, free at last. Dark. Dark! He fumbles at his eyes, nails catching at the closed lids, peeling them up and away from the _things on his eyes_. He pulls one plastic cap free, then the other. A bright flash of light, a loud noise and he flinches. Thunder. He drags himself away from the ragged gash in the earth, rain sheeting down, washing clots of dirt from his face, hair into his eyes. Around him others stand swaying in the lash of rain or free themselves from similar holes. He ignores them, lifts his head to wetness and sniffs. His jaw flexes. Something stretches in his mouth, then pops. The lips pull apart and he drags the thread free from his gums. His tongue sweeps over the small wounds, touches his lips. _Hungry_. The emptiness within forces him to his feet, stumbling away. Hunting.

So hungry.

 

 

**June, 2012, Norfolk**

“...but the first thing I remember clearly is how dark it was that night, and how my favourite shirt was grubby with dirt. My mom buried me in my Muppets shirt, wasn’t that nice? And I was all, I don’t know, hungry, but like not the hungry I had from before, when you really want some fish and chips? Wish I could have fish and chips now. Anyway, I tried to look for something to eat, but I was in this graveyard with a high fence ‘round it. Dad paid for the cemetery, which Mom said after I called her yesterday was too posh and a ‘disgusting display of caring after the fact’ but I guess she’s glad about it now. The fence kept me from getting out and people were keeping an eye on it because of the Rising. Because the next thing I remember was these people throwing a net over me and then putting a leash-thing around me, which, hey, wasn’t very brilliant of them… Was kinda not-brilliant for me too. I mean, I know they had to do it, but ugh! I'm not a dog! But I guess I was kind of rabid? Maybe? So I understand, I guess… And I was loaded into a truck and taken to the Treatment Centre. I hung around for a while with a bunch of you, just groaning and stuff, not doing much at all and it’s a bit boring when I think about it now. But then they came up with the treatment and I, I mean the real me, got to come back!”

Arthur beamed around at the support group. His fellow Partially Deceased Syndrome Sufferers and the one human therapist stared at him in bemusement. The therapist cleared her throat. "Well. We were actually meant to be talking about how you think your condition will affect you in your new life. But thank you for sharing, Arthur."

Liza, an older woman with hair almost as pale as her skin and eyes was smiling at him, but Peter was scowling. Peter was a bit scary, Arthur thought, with the tattoos standing stark against his white skin and the holes where piercings used to be in his lip and brows.

“So, what?” Peter said belligerently. “That was it? You just toddle out of your grave, get picked up, and that’s all?”

“Yup!” Arthur said. “Oh, except maybe I tried to nibble on one guy’s arm once but he gave me a bit of a shock with his stick and I stopped right there.”

“Unbe _liev_ able,” Peter muttered. “You ain’t hardly lived, mate. You never even got to eat brai -”

“Peter,” the therapist said.

“Well, none of us are living now, right? So eating doesn’t really come into it,” Arthur reasoned.

Jenny shifted on her plastic seat, uncomfortable. Arthur liked Jenny, even though she never talked. She couldn’t. She had no lungs for breath. Organ donor. Arthur was sad for her and a bit glad he still had lungs. He always told her how brilliant it was that she was learning sign language. He wished he was clever enough to do more than return-sign greetings to her, but he did talk to her loads.

“Oh, come on!” Peter said. “Arthur’s full of shite. Like, Pollyanna here comes back and it’s like some fucked-up fairy tale where he never did nothing bad? Never hurt anyone, never killed? 'Cuz that’s messed up, that. That’s not what we are, we’re zom-”

“ _Peter!_ ” Liza hissed. Peter rolled his eyes.

“'Scuse _me_ , Partially Deceased Syndrome Sufferers, and I dunno about the rest of you but I know what I done, and that was rip a hole in some bleeder and eat his brains. _That’s_ what we are,” Peter said. “You’re living in the wrong kind of fairy-tale, Arth, if you think anyone out there is gonna treat you like you ain’t a monster.”

“That’s enough, Peter,” the therapist said. “You’re upsetting Jennifer.”

Arthur reached over and took Jenny’s hand. She wouldn’t look up, her free hand plucking and twisting at the hospital scrubs but there was a return pressure on his hand. “Don’t worry, Jenny, I don’t think you’re a monster,” Arthur said. “I’d never.”

“You should just _own_ it,” Peter muttered, but he ducked his head. “S’all I’m saying.” Jenny flashed him a middle finger. Arthur giggled. The therapist cleared her throat.

“Now, Liza and Arthur will be returning to their families tomorrow, so I’m sure the rest of us all wish them well, right?” The group murmured congratulations. Jenny squeezed Arthur’s hand again and she darted a look at him, mouthing, _good luck_.

 _You too,_ he mouthed back and she gave a small smile before ducking her head again.

“Right, then. Affirmations, everyone?” the therapist prompted. Arthur straightened and looked at his friends, his fellow sufferers, all them speaking in a ragged chorus with greater or lesser tones of belief.

“I am a _Partially Deceased Syndrome Sufferer_. And what I did in my untreated state was not my fault.”

 

 

The halfway house was plain and undecorated but Arthur thought it was brilliant. He was going to see his mum again! It had been ages, well, years, though he couldn’t quite remember time passing when he'd been buried or not himself. Technically he was still twenty-nine because that’s when he died, but what birthday should he celebrate? His thirty-second? His death-day? No, maybe not, Mum had sounded all wobbly when he’d called her to say he could come home. She wouldn’t like to remember he died, even if he couldn’t remember that bit.

Arthur looked at his face in the mirror. Pale skin, bluish veins, the lines of scars from glass from the auto accident. The eyes still surprised him. His old brown eyes had been - well - _him_ for as long as he could remember. But these eyes weren’t so bad, he decided. Like a husky. A creepy husky. But he couldn’t meet Mum like this, the Centre said. Normal people wouldn’t like it. He held his eyelid apart, popped in the contact and giggled at the odd-eye effect of one grey and one brown eye. Brilliant! The other contact went in with the ease of practice. With rising spirits, he uncapped the cream mousse and began to smooth warm flesh tones over his skin. Long, even strokes, just like he'd been taught, and the scars began to disappear.

 

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/crimsongriffin/17481393315)

 

When Arthur opened the door, he saw Carolyn was standing with her head up and jaw tight. Her eyes snapped to him and widened. He stepped towards her but stopped, crushing his plastic bag of belongings in his hand in a spasm of nerves. Would she think he was a monster, like Peter said? “Mum?” he quavered. “It’s me. Arthur. Um. Hi?”

“Arthur,” she breathed. “Arthur.”

He didn’t remember the final stumbling step forward but his mum was in his arms, squeezing him until he gasped. He hugged her back, swaying with the force of his relief and love. “Mum, Mum, I missed you, missed you so much…”

Her hand brushed through the hair on the back of his head, stilled at the coolness of the flesh beneath her fingers, then continued stroking. She pulled his head down and kissed his cheek without flinching and turned her face back against his shoulder.

“Mum? Can I celebrate three birthdays in one?” Arthur asked without thinking. Carolyn jerked a little in his arms. “Since I missed three,” he finished lamely, berating himself for bringing the topic up. Of course his mum didn’t want to think of missing birthdays, he’d been dead!

To his surprise, she snorted a wet laugh. “That’s my darling boy. You can have all the birthdays you want now. Oh, Arthur.”

Arthur felt the weight of her forehead against his shoulder but was a little sad he couldn’t feel how warm she was. He missed warm hugs. She didn’t seem to want to stop hugging him anyway and Arthur was glad. He had three years of hugs to catch up on. Also, he thought maybe Mum was crying but that was okay. He was so happy he could cry too, if he could only make tears. But he couldn’t cry any more, so he just squeezed her tight.

It was _brilliant_ to be going home.

 

 

**September, 2012, Fitton**

Douglas kept his face sober as he answered Carolyn’s questions. Rebooting his long career as a pilot at some small charter firm wasn’t ideal. Well, perhaps beggars couldn’t afford to be choosers, he thought, eyes drifting around the shabby Portacabin. This Carolyn Knapp-Shappey didn’t seem like any sort of professional, much less a CEO, judging from her matronly wear. Getting the position should be a piece of cake.

Carolyn tapped her finger on his CV. “And what were your reasons for choosing to leave Air England?” She tilted her head, a daft old bird enquiring for crumbs of gossip.

“For personal reasons. Involving my family.” Douglas dropped his voice into sombre tones, implying something too serious for further inquiry if the other person had any tact. He lowered his eyes.

“Oh, I see,” she said, all treacle and sympathy. “And that’s why your licence lapsed?”

“Indeed,” Douglas said, relieved she’d taken the bait. “My renewal application is under review as we speak.” If the CAA would ever get back to him about it. Still, better to get the job now and cross his fingers about his licence. He still knew some people that might be able to help.

“Oh, well, that’s good, saves me from filling out more paperwork,” Carolyn said brightly. “So your leaving had nothing to do with a pending investigation for smuggling by your former employer?”

The sudden question made Douglas sit upright. He opened his mouth for a reply but she waved it away.

“Well, that’s not important any more. I trust you learned your lesson, hm?” She tipped her reading glasses down and eyed him, leaving Douglas to squirm like a schoolboy before the headmistress. Good lord but he was off his game. It had been over twenty years since he’d done a job interview and they’d never gone like this one. He usually had it in the bag within a few minutes. This Carolyn - she was _tricky_.

“Yes, Mrs Knapp-Shappey,” he said in his humblest tone, trying to placate her. His ego wouldn’t allow him to screw up this interview. He sat forward, prepared to turn the tap of his charm on to full. “You can believe me when I say that these past few years have given me perspective and time to ponder my mistakes.”

“Good answer,” she said, and was that the twitch of a devilish smile? “Twenty years with a large firm like Air England - excellent work experience. Your reference letters are glowing. Not forged, I trust? No, no, I was joking,” she said at Douglas’ intake of breath. “Nevertheless, MJN may be a drastic change from what you are used to, Mr Richardson.”

“I wouldn’t have applied if I weren’t interested in a change, Mrs Knapp-Shappey. But if I may… this is a charter firm, is it not? Flying aeroplanes differs only in degree, no matter the company.”

“Delivering bananas from Brazil on a cargo plane is quite different from shuttling business men back and forth in jumbo jets but I take your point. How do you feel about PDS sufferers?”

“Pardon?” _That_ had come out of the blue. He ought to have expected it, what with the state of affairs today.

“Partially Deceased Syndrome Sufferers. How would you feel, as a pilot, if you had one on your plane?”

“I…” He took a moment. “It would have no effect on my ability as a pilot, of course. My only concern would be for the usual reasons. Will he or she follows safety guidelines? Seatbelts, emergency exit scenarios, the usual. And of course, whether they posed a danger to either other passengers or myself as potential terrorists or…”

“Rabid brain eaters, yes,” Carolyn finished for him. Douglas coughed.

“But since all PDS sufferers take daily doses of Neurotriptyline the way a diabetic must take insulin, I don’t really see how having them as potential passengers is a problem.” He essayed a smile. “Less trouble than normal people, I’d say, since they’re not likely to drop dead during a flight.”

She gazed at him long enough that the joke fell flat before smiling. “Well, it’ll save on catering, it’s true. It’s good to hear you say they don’t trouble you, as PDS sufferers are likely to make up a large percentage of our passengers.”

Douglas’ jaw loosened in disbelief as she began to explain her firm’s business model. MJN Air, courtesy of government contracts, would fly civilian scientists and sensitive lab equipment that the military couldn’t or wouldn’t be bothered with. In addition, MJN would also fly chartered flights transporting PDS sufferers for treatment, as well as those being reunited with families either inside or outside the UK. “If there’s time available, we’ll take on the usual private charters. Wedding parties to Ipanema, football fans to World Cups. So.” Carolyn folded her hands placidly and looked for his reaction. “Could you see yourself working in such an environment?”

It took a great deal to stun Douglas Richardson. Carolyn had managed it. He regarded her with new respect. “That’s quite the business model. Risky as well as risqué. Who came up with this plan?”

“Oh, I came up with the idea. My ex-husband’s financial advisors set up the rest. He’s been kind enough to invest in my venture.” Her smile was sharp. “I ran a charter business for several years before the Rising. That’s his old jet -”

“Mum, the hoover bag’s busted and there’s dust all over the inside of G-ERTI! My contacts are all fogged up!” A tall young man blundered inside, knocking into a chair. He squinched his eyes at Douglas before blinking again in a rapid pattern, obviously in distress. “Oh, sorry, didn’t know you were busy with someone.”

Carolyn sighed and opened a desk drawer, passing over a bottle of solution. “Take them out and give them and your eyes a good rinse. No, not here - oh, for heaven’s sake!” The young man had tilted his head back and squirted solution directly in his eyes, frantic to clear his vision. Carolyn started to rummage for a tissue but Douglas beat her, standing up to pass his handkerchief to the man. He took it and mopped his streaming eyes.

“Oh, that helps! Thanks.” The stranger blinked and focussed on Douglas, grinning in relief. “Hi. I’m Arthur Shappey. Sorry to interrupt, Mr…?”

“Richardson. Douglas Richardson.” Douglas couldn’t help staring. “I’m sorry, but you seem to have, erm…” He tapped under his eye. “Your contact lens fell out.” He forbore mentioning that the lad’s cover-up mousse was now streaked from the solution, revealing tell-tale white skin beneath.

Arthur’s brow puckered. “My contact? Oh. Oh no!” He looked into the handkerchief, aghast, then dropped to his knees. “Where, where? Oh, hurray, there it is!” He clambered to his feet, lens cupped in his palm.

“Arthur, my love,” Carolyn said with a sigh that told Douglas how often this sort of thing happened. “Now that you’ve comprehensively interrupted, would you mind letting Mr Richardson have the rest of his interview?”

“Right! Right. Sorry, Mum. Mr Richardson. Sorry.” Arthur ducked his head at them and shouldered his way out again.

Douglas settled himself in his seat again. _Ah hah_. So that was the reason Carolyn was starting up such a niche business. Her son wasn’t likely to find employment easily with his condition. Hmm. This could be useful when it came to discussing his salary.

“Yes,” he said. “In answer to your earlier question. I could see myself working for MJN.”

“Grand! You’re hired.” Carolyn beamed and began to pull papers and pens from the desk.

“Just like that?” Douglas said, unable to believe what he’d heard.

Carolyn lifted a brow. “Yes, why? Oh, in case I hadn't mentioned it, the position is for First Officer. Probationary. And of course we need to sort out your licence as soon as possible. That won’t be a problem, will it?”

“First officer? Surely you can do better than that. You’ll have a twenty-year veteran, a senior captain flying your jet, with all that confidence that can inspire in clients.” Douglas dug in his heels. This woman was not going to run roughshod over him, damn it. He had twenty years of experience!

Carolyn chuckled. “Mr Richardson. Douglas. You’ve got nerve, I’ll give you that. It’ll come in handy. But your CV, as excellent as it appears, is somewhat incomplete. In the golden years of my life I may be, but stupid I am not. You’re dead.”

Douglas clenched his jaw but said nothing. Carolyn tilted her head at him.

“Though I must compliment you on your make-up, it’s very convincing, with all the shading and highlights in the proper places. It takes a woman to appreciate the nuances, you know. Nice work not shaking my hand when we met, by the by. It would have been a dead - ahem - give-away.”

“I do try,” Douglas said. He paused. “What are you going to do now?”

“Me?” Carolyn chuckled again. “About your little deception, which was never going to hold up once you had to explain why your licence hadn’t been renewed? Nothing. But _you_ are going to start on the tedious paperwork.” She pushed the sheets over to him. “Fill out these forms for a Special Issuance of a Medical Certificate, and this one for a Statement of Demonstrated Ability. I assume you _can_ fly? In which case, we’ll get you back in the air in spite of your, erm, medical defect which is... “ She traced a line on the form. “‘Static and non-progressive in nature.’”

“That’s an excellent tactic,” Douglas admitted. “It’s not like I’ll die any more than I have already. But can we really finagle the CAA into giving back my licence?”

“The aforementioned ex-husband again. He has a legal team like a battering ram, influence of the unsavoury but untraceable type, and a certain sense of obligation concerning…” She waved her hand at the door Arthur had exited. “Well.”

“I see.” Douglas did. “Well, then. Let’s get on with this, shall we? It’s not likely a person like me will get another chance like this.” The words were cheerful but he couldn't help the underlying bitterness in his tone. He picked up a pen and turned the form around. There was a silence. He glanced up and sat back at the full focus of her attention.

“Perhaps, Mr Richardson, you are thinking to yourself that I’m a soft-hearted woman who doesn’t want her son to live and work in an environment of prejudice and hatred. I do want that - but I am not soft. And if you in any way hate yourself or him for what happened and what you’ve become, say so now and we will terminate this interview.”

Douglas didn’t answer her directly. “But really - First Officer?”

“Regulations. Mine, to be specific. It will be much easier to get MJN off the ground as a business if a living captain is in charge. You’re capable, I know. But there are certain groups… well, bigots in government, may as well not mince words - that must be placated. I’m sorry.” Carolyn did look vaguely apologetic. Amazing.

“No, you’re not,” Douglas said. It was true - unless he wanted to earn his keep doing scut work, he had few options as a PDS sufferer. If he took the job with MJN, at least he’d have a decent wage. He could put money by again, give his life structure and purpose. Living on his own meant that he had too much time to think. A job, even as a lowly first officer, would help.

At Carolyn’s glare, Douglas reviewed what he’d just said. “I mean, no. You’re not soft. Not at all.” A real Iron Lady, to be honest. Yes, he’d been well off his game, misjudging her as he had. He held out his hand. She shook it with no sign of being bothered by the coolness of his grasp. “Mrs Knapp-Shappey, I’d be pleased to work as your first officer.”


	2. This, too, shall pass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin has a shattering interview with MJN Air, Douglas practices patience, and Carolyn exercises tough... well, it's not really love, it's Carolyn.

**Stuck in Arrivals**

**(With a Contested Return Ticket)**

 

 

 

Martin’s mouth opens and closes, his hands falling from his pockets. His mind has stopped working, save a small part that is babbling frantically, _It can’t be, it’s not real, this is a joke, but but but_ \- the smell. It’s not real, he tells himself, there should be more than the awful reek of clothes left in the washer for weeks. _Not real._

The thing’s eyes are milk white, pupils misshapen, hair lank and thick with dirt. _It’s. Not. Real!_

It reaches for him and the nails are broken, splinters of wood under nails and oh. _Oh god_. The fear jackhammers into his brain and Martin backpedals away, limbs beyond his control. His heel catches and he falls, head thunking into tarmac. Stars burst in his vision and he cries out. He hears the shuffle of its footsteps.

It’s coming closer. His limbs aren't responding. He’s stunned and it’s coming -

 

**November, 2012**

Martin’s eyes flew open. He sat up with a choked cry, dragging air into his aching chest. In. Out. In. Out. His alarm was bleating and had been for some time. He reached out and flicked it off. He jolted, heart thundering again at the knock on his bedroom door.

“Martin? Are you awake, love?” His mother was in the hall, respecting his privacy. She never woke him any more, no matter what noises he made in his sleep. Not since that time he’d woken up flailing and hit her. “Breakfast is on the table. Come on, you have a big day ahead of you!” So optimistic, his mother, even after three years of horrors. Martin sighed and threw back the covers. He rubbed a hand over the shiny scar tissue of his calf, massaging the quivering muscle until it relaxed. Time for the interview suit.

Breakfast was mostly silent, aching gaps between comments about the weather and the upcoming interview. Martin was grateful his mother didn’t mention the probable sounds he’d made in his sleep. The nightmares still came, especially on nights when he was worried or upset. He never talked about them. Sometimes the pretense of normality was all they could hold on to.

Three years had passed since the Rising, with the horrors of the Pale Wars in the following year, those _things_ attacking anyone outside their homes. People had barricaded themselves in, scavenged in abandoned shops for supplies. And when the Army couldn’t help, too focussed on large cities to help with less populated areas, people banded together to help each other. To fight back. Martin had done his bit. Not fighting - he’d been useless for combat after… well, after. But as things had turned out, being a man with a van had come in handy - first for using his dad’s old left-over electrician's supplies to do repairs. Then he'd begun to shuttle groups of people when petrol got scarce. Later, in the most desperate times, he’d been the driver for supply runs, waiting outside while people fitter and braver than he raided supermarkets for dry goods to take back to their neighbourhood.

But since the development of Neurotriptyline and the passing of the PDS Protection Act last year, things had leveled out. Life went on, after all. For most people, that is. Ha ha.

Wendy saw him out to his van. “Drive safe, love. I’ll call you if there’s any news -”

“I’ll call you,” Martin interrupted. He patted the fender over the cracked rear turn light and climbed in. He’d have to get that fixed, maybe get a new battery for the faithful old girl. “Whether I get the job or not.” He leaned down for a kiss. His mother was wonderful, but he couldn’t stand how she waited for the impossible. Martin prayed he’d get the job, because if he had to stay another year, another _month_ living in that house with the grieving memories and shadows of terror, he’d go spare. It was time to stop odd-jobbing and get back to flying. He forced a smile for his mother, tamping down the guilt at the thought of leaving her alone. “Bye, Mum.”

His calf twinged once more. He drove off.

Martin skidded on the floor of the lobby, soaked from the torrential downpour that had delayed traffic and his arrival at the London hotel where MJN Air was conducting its interviews. God, he was a mess, why hadn’t he brought an umbrella? Water trickled down the back of his neck as he asked the receptionist where Conference Room B was.

“MJN? Just down that hall, sir, and to the left.”

“Thanks. Thank you!” Martin jogged in the indicated direction. Left? No, the first corridor to the left, that’s what she meant. He turned and his nose came into painful contact with someone’s chest. “Ow!”

“Whoops!” Arms grabbed Martin’s shoulders as he staggered back. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t hear you coming.” Martin held his aching nose and blinked watering eyes at the ‘Hello! My Name is Arthur!’ name tag. “Brilliant tag, isn’t it?” the young man said, noticing his attention. “The hotel gave it to me. It sounds so friendly, like something I’d say. I would say that, actually. Hello! My name is Arthur!”

“Oh,” Martin said. He worked for the hotel? “Great, can you show me where Conference Room B is? I’m running late -” He looked up and couldn’t help the strange gurgle in his throat. This close up, the cover-up mousse makeup was clearly visible in the crinkles of the man’s eyes and over thin scars on the man's face as he grinned at Martin.

“Interview? Brilliant!” Hello-My-Name-Is-Arthur said. “Follow me. Gosh, is it raining out? You’re all wet.”

In shock, Martin followed the dead man down the left hallway to a door on the left. Arthur gave the door a couple of raps.

“Yes, come in,” an impatient woman’s voice called. Arthur grinned again at Martin and gave him a thumb’s up.

“Good luck! I hope you do better than the others did. They all looked kind of red-faced and scowly when they left. Or sick.”

Martin swallowed. God, this Carolyn Knapp-Shappey must be terrifying. He nodded and pushed the door open. Within, a middle-aged woman was sorting papers into a satchel with a disgruntled expression. “Hello?” Martin said. “Carolyn Knapp-Shappey? Martin Crieff, here for the…” He looked at his watch and winced. “12:30 interview. I’m so terribly sorry, there was a delay on the M4, construction and rain and…” His voice trailed off. A drip fell from his mussed reddish hair.

“Yes, very well,” Carolyn said with a sniff. “You’re lucky you caught me. I was just about to leave, you were the last interviewee. Have a seat.”

Martin sat, conscious of his wet-cat appearance and how his suit must be soaking the fabric of the hotel chair. Could this day get any worse?

Apparently it could.

After a decimating interview where he stuttered through standard questions, defended his employment record as a pilot with too much vehemence ( _It was the Pale Wars! Excuse me for not sending out CVs when I was busy not getting eaten!_ ), and blanked for the _first time in his life_ when asked why he wanted to be a pilot, Martin was drained. Carolyn sighed and pressed her lips tight.

“But you kept up your licence.”

“Yes,” Martin said. He wet his lips. “It’s… flying. It’s everything to me. I wanted… want nothing more than to get back to it.”

“Hm.” She was non-committal. “Well, certainly you are qualified for the position. Barely.”

Martin sat up, a flicker of hope warming him. Would it sound desperate if he said he’d do anything to get the position? Maybe. Probably. He said it anyway.

“That’s very good, Mr Crieff,” Carolyn said. “A very positive attitude. Now, I am required to tell you about the working conditions.”

Martin’s thrill of optimism began to fade as Carolyn explained the company’s focus. Piloting for a small charter, but transporting Rotters? Working with two of them, one of them in the very flight deck? The cheery dead man from the hallway was her son, the airline’s steward. Martin’s chest felt funny. He had no idea what his expression was but it couldn’t have been good. After a sharp look, Carolyn began to speak at a quicker pace, explaining the refitting of the Lockheed-McDonnell and its new safety features for their clientele - and pilots. It was as if she were afraid he would bolt. Martin stared at her, hands knotted together in his lap to keep their shaking from being obvious.

Carolyn considered him. “The position is for captain, if that interests you.” She quoted a starting salary. Martin's jaw was frozen; he couldn't utter a word. That was… that was good, much more than he’d ever earned, but… but the other thing…

“Well, if you’re not interested, then good day, Mr Crieff." Carolyn huffed, snapped her satchel closed and stood. "Another fine waste of time, setting up these interviews,” she muttered. “Especially since we should have started flying last week. Really, you’d think people would _want_ jobs.”

“Wait!” Martin stood so quickly the chair clattered over. This job, it would mean flying again, at last, at _last_. And he could move away from Wokingham and all its bad memories. As for the other thing, working with Ro… PDS sufferers... He opened his mouth and the most audacious thing he’d ever said in his life fell out. “The salary you quoted. I - I - I think you made a mistake.”

There was a dangerous gleam in Carolyn’s eye. “Did I?”

“Yes. It’s a bit lower than one would expect for, for flying under… under dangerous conditions! Transporting UK rabids… citizens, I mean citizens! Who may go rabid. Or are already rabid, did I say that? From abroad. That does sound a bit… dangerous?”

“ _Untreated_ PDS sufferers,” Carolyn said, stressing the phrase, “will be drugged and kept in a locked enclosure, escorted on and off the plane by handlers. There is no danger.” The look in her eye warned him to never imply her son was a hazard. “All of MJN’s PDS clients and crew are be required to be dosed with Neurotriptyline before flights, given by a duly-appointed medical technician at the airports.”

“Nevertheless.” Martin lifted his chin. “It… it looks like I’m your last candidate. Arthur mentioned how the others all legged it.” She lifted a brow at this, implying that the flight of the other candidates was only a minor inconvenience. “And, and if… if you want to start flights this week, then you’d better hire me. I’ll do it. I’ll fly for you.” He could do it. He _would_ do it. Arthur had looked quite… normal. For a… PDS sufferer. Scars aside. And quite friendly, as well. Surely MJN’s first officer couldn’t be much worse.

Carolyn stared at him with an odd mixture of irritation and consideration. “Fine. You make a good case, Mr Crieff. I’m surprised you had it in you. And as you point out, you didn’t run screaming.” _Yet_ , her tone seemed to imply. She didn’t mention his trembling hands and showed her teeth in something almost like a smile. “I’ll want you to come by the office in Fitton tomorrow to finalise paperwork and begin going over the flights ops and regs. As you guess, a number of them have been changed to cover our situation. Congratulations. You’re a captain - probationary, of course. If things don’t work out…” _For any reason_ , the pause said. “You’ll be out on your ear. Welcome to MJN, Captain Crieff.” She passed him her card, shook his hand and sailed out without confirming whether he’d get the pay increase or not.

Martin barely noticed. The title made him light-headed and he swayed in the breeze of Carolyn’s exit. He couldn’t help the wide smile stretching his face. _Captain_. Of an aeroplane. Flying again! He hoped he could live with - _ha, ha_ \- working with two dead people onboard who could go rabid if they missed injections. Ha. Ha.

Oh, right. That.

 

_**Edinburgh** _

“Goodness, Carolyn, he’s practically wet behind the ears. This is who you’ve hired to lead our merry band into the great wide beyond?” Douglas griped. Carolyn sniffed, annoyed.

“How far the mighty have fallen, Douglas,” she said. “Yes, this is our newest employee and your captain, Martin Crieff. If you’re done putting your worst foot forward?” Not that Douglas’ comment hadn’t done good - from looking spooked at the sight of his undead first officer, Martin now looked irked at being discussed as if he weren’t even there. “Martin, as you may have guessed, this is Douglas Richardson, your first officer.”

Martin visibly steeled himself and extended his hand. “Nice to meet you.” His shoulders relaxed as Douglas gave it a perfunctory shake.

“Grand,” Carolyn said. “Now, as you know, the flight will be straightforward, shuttling some boffins from Edinburgh to London for a conference. As per their request, Arthur won’t be steward. You’ll have the pleasure of my company this jaunt.”

Douglas’ mouth flattened out at the news that the scientists were disinclined to be in contact with a PDS sufferer but made no comment. Martin’s chest fell with a silent exhalation of relief. Carolyn mentally made a note to continue accepting job applications. Martin bore close watching.

This was confirmed by Martin’s reaction to G-ERTI’s interior. Neither the new contact tasers located fore and aft in the passenger section, nor the currently tastefully-curtained cage located to the left of the toilet caused more than a slight pause in their tour. But his face paled at the ‘safety buffer zone’ of the galley with its locks between the flight deck and cabin.

“The - the updates on the manual weren’t clear,” Martin said. “Is this to prevent rabids from breaking into the flight deck, or… or?”

“Yes,” Douglas said unhelpfully. His smirk belied his irritation with Martin’s unfinished sentence. Carolyn quelled him with a glance.

“It is important for passengers to know that if anything untoward happens, there are refuges in both ends of the plane,” Carolyn stated.

“I can think of a much better use for the toilet,” Douglas said.

“Such as, the purpose for which it was intended?” Carolyn retorted. “I was a stewardess for years. Believe me, I know what passengers can get up to.”

“Who said anything about the passengers?” Douglas said, smirking. Carolyn held on to her temper as Martin looked from one to the other, mouth open. She opened the flight deck door and gestured them inside.

“Well… I can see that no expense for refitting was spared here,” Douglas remarked as he took in the worn surfaces. “Literally. No expense at all.”

“Why would I waste money where no paying customer can appreciate it?” Carolyn said.

Martin’s brows had drawn together. He gingerly touched a piece of duct tape covering a crack in a plastic panel. “Maybe in the interests of having future customers?” he said, voice going high. “Really, Carolyn, is this plane safe to fly?”

“It’s passed inspection.”

“By how much?” Martin said. He’d forgotten Douglas’ presence in his outrage. “I know the Lockheed-McDonnell is a classic, but -"

“But nothing. We are wasting time, pilots!” She clapped her hands. “Fly, my pretties!”

Douglas was barely restraining a smile. Without further comment, he slid into his seat. Martin gave her one last agonised look before taking his own.

The flight up was uneventful. Carolyn cheerfully disregarded the new regulations and kept company with her pilots in the flight deck. Douglas proved her instincts right - undead he might be and resentful of it, yet he matched her light conversational tone. Friendly in that way new colleagues are, professional and very good at the actual flying business, calm and relaxed as he contacted ATC. Perhaps she’d have Douglas make the cabin addresses in the future - his voice was rather lovely and reassuring. It’s not as if passengers would know that he was speaking from beyond the grave, Carolyn thought, and smiled to herself.

Martin, on the other hand, seemed to have a problem with his neck. Certainly he would take quick glances over his shoulder at her, but he seemed unable to look in his copilot’s direction. His additions to the conversation were disjointed and stuttering. Douglas, for his part, seemed to take his captain’s nerves in stride. Well, at least the boy could fly. The way he dove at the controls for the smallest corrections with hardly a fumble looking for the correct toggles in what must be a new layout for him boded well. The smile that spread over his thin face as G-ERTI lifted from the ground drew even Douglas’ attention. Oblivious to the curious glances Douglas and Carolyn exchanged, Martin flew, eyes and attention fixed on the job.

 

A pity Arthur wasn’t with them, Carolyn thought as she guided the group of scientists to their seats. He would test Martin’s limits, and not simply because Arthur would try the patience of a saint. At the very least, having a PDS sufferer in their midst might stop these smug eggheads discussing the ‘problem’ of Partially Deceased Syndrome in less than polite terms.

“All set back there?” Douglas asked.

“Indeed. Gentlemen, are we ready?” At Martin’s nod she smiled. “Well then. Have a good flight.” She closed the flight deck door on Martin’s appalled expression, the automatic lock clicking. The keypad was on both sides, really, there was no need for Martin to look like that. It was like leaving a lamb alone with a lion in its den. Granted, a relatively mannerly and medicated old lion, but if Martin wasn’t going to last, better to know sooner rather than later. She chuckled to herself and began to load the drinks trolley.

 

Martin gulped as the door closed. The flight deck was abruptly too small. Was it warmer in here? His neck began to prickle with sweat. Oh, god. He was locked in with a Rott… with a PDS sufferer. Meeting Arthur again when he’d gone to sign a contract had been fine. Even close up the scarring was barely noticeable under the heavy mousse, and the warm colouring suited Arthur’s contacts and wavy brown hair. Douglas had been fine today as well, though dismissive and cool in more ways than one. It didn’t help Martin’s confidence that Douglas _looked_ the part of a pilot in comparison to himself. Douglas was tall, broad-chested and in his fifties, with greying brown hair framing a handsome face. Next to him, Martin felt short and inconsequential in his uniform, ginger curls flattened unflatteringly from his pilot’s cap. Their handshake had been tepid, Douglas’ hand slightly cooler than the air temperature. But now Martin’s nerves were jangling and the locks on the door weren’t helping his mental state.

Douglas reached to toggle the flaps and his shirt cuff rode up, revealing bare skin where make-up had rubbed away. Martin couldn’t tear his eyes from that translucent gleam. Douglas saw the direction of his gaze, glanced down at his wrist and back to Martin. Some complicated emotion moved in Douglas’ eyes behind the brown contacts. He made no move to tug the cuff down again.

“Problem, captain?” The tone was challenging.

“N-no,” Martin said. “Sorry. It’s nothing. Just…” He trailed off. Nothing, just that’d he’d been able to put the fact that his first officer was dead out of his mind for long stretches and now he was alone with him, trapped in a tiny cockpit with him, within arm’s reach… Martin’s eyes flickered over the copilot’s seat, the extra dangling straps that would trap Douglas’ arms, keeping him from touching the controls in the case of… in case. Oh god. Unconsciously Martin’s own hand dropped to his belt, brushing over the contact taser holster.

“Eyes on the skies, captain. Shall I radio in?” Martin jerked a nod. Douglas unclipped the mic and called in. “Golf Echo Romeo Tango India to…” He frowned, held up the mic and held the button down. Nothing.

Oh god, was the radio broken? What if something dire happened? “I can try mine,” Martin said but Douglas wiggled the cord at the bottom and held the mic at an angle. The radio clicked, hissed and Douglas repeated their altitude and bearing to a bored ATC. Martin throttled back a hysterical giggle.

“My mobile is just the same,” he gabbled in relief. “I mean, you have to hold it just so to maintain connection, it’s this cheap thing, it’s ridicu- anyway.”

“G-ERTI does seem rather vintage,” Douglas said. “Probably a loose connection.”

They lapsed into stiff silence. Martin turned off the “Fasten Seatbelts” sign button, or tried to. The damned thing wouldn’t release. He jabbed at it, getting more flustered.

“Allow me,” Douglas said, reaching over. Martin pressed himself back in his seat away from that long arm. Douglas pushed the recalcitrant thing. Nothing. He balled up his hand and pressed his thumb hard against the plating beneath the button. With a snap, it popped up.

Face burning, Martin let Douglas make the announcement that the passengers were free to leave their seats. “I could have got it,” he said.

“I’m sure Sir has reservoirs of hidden strength,” Douglas said. “Think nothing of it.”

Douglas’ relaxed condescension flustered Martin even further. God, he was being out-piloted by a dead man! “Carolyn really must get these things fixed,” he sputtered. “How am I expected to do my job when the plane is well-nigh unflyable?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say be so hard on the old girl,” Douglas drawled. “She may have some idiosyncrasies and is bit set in her ways, like any old lady. It’s up to us to learn her ways, not the other way - hm. I say. That’s interesting.”

A red warning light was lit up. “Oh, god. Smoke? Smoke in the cabin!” Martin said. “Douglas, get hold of ATC, we may need to ditch.” He fumbled for the private intercom. “Carolyn? Is there a problem? Is anyone smoking? In the toilet?” He glared at Douglas, who hadn’t moved to obey. “First officer, will you please -!”

“No,” came Carolyn’s bemused reply. “No one’s even left their seats.”

“No fire?”

“None, and if you don’t mind, I’ve pretzels to hand out,” she said and hung up. Martin looked at Douglas, eyes wide. He shrugged.

“Figure it out yet, Captain Sherlock?”

Martin looked at the red light. Taking his cue from Douglas’ previous action, he finger-flicked it. The light went out. “Oh, for pity’s sake!”

Douglas chuckled. “The old girl has bits falling off her faster than I do.”

Martin cringed at the thought of both scenarios. “How can you _say_ that?”

“Because it’s true? I would know, after all.” Douglas heaved a sigh. “From Air England to this, this _airdot_.”

“How can she even claim this thing is air-worthy?” Martin railed.

“Bribes?” Douglas suggested.

“Fine for you, I suppose you wouldn't even be worried about the very great possibility of the whole plane falling out of the sky!” Martin snapped. He gulped when Douglas fixed him with a hard look. He hadn’t meant _that_ , not like that. Douglas was an experienced pilot, he must have seen some tricky situations in his career, _that_ was what he’d meant to imply. He tried to backpedal. “You, er…”

“No, I’m not,” Douglas said, voice even. “Not much for me to lose, isn’t that right?”

That shut Martin up. Oh god. Was Douglas that heedless of his… afterlife? The very idea of flying with a person who didn’t care if he died, who would have in his cold hands the lives of passengers and crew - it scared Martin to the core. He gripped the yoke to conceal the tremor in his hands. Next to him, Douglas heaved a gusty sigh. “Captain…”

“Radio for a weather update, please, first officer,” Martin said, and hated himself for how his voice slid and cracked.

He kept control and landed G-ERTI in several rough bounces that would have had his old flight instructors shaking their heads and scribbling on their clipboards. Douglas, for his part, had kept their exchanges brief, nothing being said beyond the necessary discourse for professionals. With G-ERTI parked, he waited until the scientists had deplaned before bolting from the plane, calf aching.

Alone in a men’s restroom, he braced arms on the sink and hung his head. That… that had been horrible. Not the actual flying, that had been wonderful. But the rest of it… _god._ He wetted several paper towels and laid them on the back of his neck, releasing a hoarse sigh.

“Martin? Ah, there you are.” Martin spun, towels falling with a wet plop. Carolyn stood in the doorway. “I’d like to have a word.”

So much for his new job. “Sure,” he said, listless.

“Good.” She stepped in and closed the door, wrinkling her nose at the urinals.

“Here?” Martin said. “You can’t be in here!” Great, not only had he been frightened silly today, he was about to be sacked in a toilet. Humiliating.

Carolyn ignored his feeble protest. “I’m not going to ask about that landing despite it rattling my teeth, because I hadn’t expected perfection from a very junior pilot who hasn’t flown a commercial aircraft in years.”

“Thank you,” Martin said. He waited for the axe to fall.

“Well? What do you mean by running off like that?”

“I…” Martin pressed a hand to his eyes, scrubbed his face. “It was a difficult flight. For me, today, I mean. What with… the radio was acting up, and… There was a warning light, I, I was afraid that… Nothing _bad_ happened, I handled it. I’m sure Douglas would have taken care of it if I hadn’t. I think he would’ve, anyway. Er. And… and I apologise. I - I shouldn’t have left Douglas to finish the post-flight work.”

“Quite right, though as you say, Douglas can handle it.” Carolyn eyed him. “A warning light?”

“Smoke detector,” Martin said.

“Ah, that. Well, at least you attempted to follow procedure, from what Douglas said.”

Martin lifted his head at that. Douglas had spoken up for him? That was… unexpected.

“But I do expect better, Martin. Both in flying and professionalism. You do know that I can’t afford to keep a pilot whose shirt is soaked with fear-sweat merely because his copilot is a PDS sufferer -”

“That’s from the paper towels,” Martin protested.

"Be that as it may. It gives clients the wrong impression. And sends the wrong message to Douglas, as well as Arthur. Again, if you are unable to work in an environment with Partially Deceased...”

“I’m sorry,” Martin burst out. “I - I’ll do better, I swear.” It had to get better, didn’t it? His traumatic first day was over and apparently he still had a job.

Carolyn sniffed. “I hope so. Now, if you’ve finished your business in here -”

The door swung open. A man on coveralls stared at Carolyn in outrage. “Hey! You’re not supposed to be in here!”

Carolyn's smile was all sweetness and sharp teeth. The man took a step back. “Young man, I’m always _exactly_ where I’m meant to be.” He scrambled out of her way as she left.

Martin slumped against the sink, dizzy with relief. Thank _god._ Thank god he hadn’t been fired.

And thank god he wasn’t the only one terrified of her. Between Carolyn and his PDS coworkers, he was _almost_ sure he was less scared of Arthur and Douglas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments thus far, it's very encouraging!


	3. Dead Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MJN flies to a death metal festival. Douglas calls his ex-wife. Martin meets Dirk the groundsman, who reminds of him a certain famous singer. Dirk doesn't appreciate the comparison.

_**Toronto** _

Arthur was thrilled to be working as a steward again. Helping other PDS sufferers like himself get together with their families again? Brilliant! It was like watching Homeward Bound, except with people instead of pets, and lots of crying and hugging. Well, not Arthur crying, obviously. But Alex’s parents were really happy to have him back, and Mrs Dunstable’s husband wouldn’t let go of her hand and it was all really brilliant. Arthur did give Alex a hug, though his mum had sighed something about _professionalism, Arthur_ and _you’re MJN’s steward, please remember that_.

Martin and Douglas greeted each guest as they filed onto G-ERTI, Douglas smiling and Martin parroting his welcomes. It was a bit funny, Arthur thought, how Martin’s freckles stood out on his face like that. He was so pale, he almost looked liked Arthur before he put his mousse on in the mornings! Douglas looked more alive than Martin.

“You’re not sick, are you, Skip?” Arthur asked, worried.

“No! No, I’m fine, I - what did you call me?”

“Skip, because you’re MJN’s captain, and a captain is the skipper. So you’re Skip!” Arthur said. “It’s a nickname, you know? Like when you have a different name for a person and you want to say it in a hurry?”

Martin looked as though he wanted to think of an objection and couldn’t. Instead a small smile crossed his face. “Thank you, Arthur. Anyway, I’m not sick, I’m just…”

“Nervous?” Douglas supplied. “Jittery? Terrified?”

“I’m not!”

“Why?” Arthur said. “Is it because this is the most people we’ve flown since Mum restarted MJN? Don’t worry, Skip! Just think of how happy everyone will be to get to their new homes! This flight is going to be brilliant!”

Martin didn’t look as if he agreed it would be brilliant but it didn’t dampen Arthur’s enthusiasm. “Did you know that Alex had brain cancer? It’s kind of a pity he never got to grow much of his hair back before he died, but he says he’s just grateful he’s getting another chance. He wants to go back to school and finish his degree. Isn’t that great?”

Martin blinked at this, as if he’d never thought about it before. “I - I suppose so. Yes.”

“Arthur, how did you get that out of him? You met him ten minutes ago,” Douglas said.

“Asked him,” Arthur said blithely. “It’s nice meeting another Pee Dee Esser.”

“Pee Dee Esser,” Douglas said. “I’ll go out on a limb and guess that’s another nickname for people like you and me.”

“Yep!”

"It's not bad," Douglas allowed.

Martin’s mouth was hanging open slightly. “You… just asked? Isn’t that a bit… insensitive?”

“Nah,” Arthur said. “We PDSers talked about dying for yonks in the Centre. Not around staff, they didn't want us to, but when it was just us PDSers. It’s great for starting conversations. Like a secret handshake! ‘Hi, I’m Arthur, I was in a car crash and that’s the last thing I remember, I died in hospital!’” His face sobered. “Uh. But maybe don’t talk about that in front of Mum, please? She got this look on her face when I asked what happened.”

Martin was shaking his head. “No, of course not, god. I’m… I’m so sorry, Arthur. I’d never… er.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, I don’t,” Arthur said. “Like Alex says, I’m just really happy to be back! How about you, Douglas? How did you die?”

“Oh, the usual way,” Douglas drawled. “Though I think the lack of respiration and heartbeat was what did me in.” Martin looked at him, a line between his brows.

“That doesn’t explain anything,” Arthur complained. “Did you -?”

“Arthur, are you pestering the pilots?” Carolyn said, poking her head in the flight deck. “Go do the seatbelt checks. It’s time I locked things down.”

“Right-o!” Arthur waved at Martin and Douglas. Martin was looking pale again. Aw. Poor Skip. Maybe he was getting sick! Arthur was kind of glad he didn’t get sick any more. He hated getting sniffles and tummy aches. He hoped Skip felt better soon.

 

**Fitton**

Martin placed the last glass in the cupboard and closed it. There, that was the kitchen done. He looked around the room, cluttered with wadded paper and boxes. With a sigh he picked up the scissors. There were still several boxes to unpack in the living room of his small new flat. It had been with reluctance, regret and a shameful sense of release that he’d finally found a new place. It wasn’t that he was abandoning his mother. He’d still be dropping by on days off. Caitlin had reassured her mother that yes, she still lived in Wokingham and there was no reason to miss Martin - didn’t Mom remember she had a daughter too? Wendy had laughed at the good-natured raillery and Martin had silently blessed his sister for making his departure easier.

He knelt and worked open another box labelled ‘Fragile’. Within were several bubble-wrapped items. Working slowly, he freed the first airplane model from its windings. With care he teased a shred of plastic from a tiny propellor and blew on it, making it spin.

_“...and the wings have to be curved. You see, the air hits the front of the wing and splits! Going over the curve on top makes it faster, so there’s lower pressure. But the air going under is slower and has more pressure, so it’s always pushing up, up, you see?” Geoff demonstrated by pushing up under the model’s wings._

_Six-year old Martin’s brows furrowed in confusion. “But… then why can’t I fly if I put my arms out and run real fast?”_

_Geoff chuckled. “Same reason planes need engines.” He leaned forward and blew into Martin’s face. Martin scrunched his face up, giggling. “You feel that? That’s more air pressure! And since it’s hitting the front of the plane, it slows it down all the time. And so you need an engine to help push the plane fast enough to get the lift.” He blew on the model’s props with a low whistle, lifting it._

_Martin was thinking hard again. “So I need to run faster?”_

_Geoff laughed and shook his head. “Much, much faster. And have different shaped arms. I’m afraid it doesn’t quite work that way.”_

_“Oh.” Martin considered. “Then… then I want to be a pilot. I’ll get to have a plane. And then I don’t have to run.”_

_“Hard work, all that running,” Geoff agreed with a gentle smile and smoothed a hand over Martin’s errant red curls._

With a lump in his throat, Martin breathed again on the tiny prop. He stood and looked at his bookcase - yes, that space would be just right. He placed the Spitfire in its new home.

 

**Uppsala**

“Why would anyone in their right names call their band ‘Zombie Apocalypse’?” Martin’s brow was furrowed. “It seems a bit… inappropriate.”

“The kind of band that plays death metal? One that charters flights to Scandinavia’s largest death metal festival with an airline that guarantees Partially Deceased service? For publicity and a certain kind of cachet, I suppose,” Douglas said. “I find it rather amusing, myself.”

“I don’t,” Martin said. “It’s not like any of them are even... er.”

“Partially dead?” Douglas supplied. “Not a one, though I couldn’t tell from those groupies’ make-up. I’m sorry, Martin, but you can’t discriminate against clients for having the poor taste to be alive. Carolyn wouldn’t like it.”

“I wasn’t -!” Martin’s indignant protest was interrupted by the flight deck door unlocking. A flustered Arthur fell through, clutching a plastic wrapped case.

“Oh, sorry, chaps! I just, uh… Do you mind if I stay here with you for a bit?”

“Arthur, what on earth have you got on your face?” Douglas said.

Black smudges adorned Arthur’s cheek and mouth. From his expression it was clear that if he could have blushed, he would have.

Martin suppressed a shudder at the dark-stained lips. It reminded him too much of other faces, wet black mouths.

“Um. Nothing! Nothing at all, why? Do I need to fix my mousse?” Arthur said, un-masterfully dissembling.

“Don’t bother on my account,” Douglas said.

“Yes, yes you should!” Martin said. “It… it’s not maintaining MJN’s image if you - if you don’t look your best at all times!”

“Actually, Martin, Zombie Apocalypse had requested that Arthur and I go _au naturel_ , but Carolyn refused. Said much the same thing as you, though I’m sure that’s not why she said no.” Douglas’ cool gaze assessed Martin and he cringed slightly.

“Nevertheless,” he said.

“Oh, right! Sorry, Skip.” Arthur looked hunted. “It’s just, er… The toilet’s back there and… d’you fellows want some coffee? I can get that for you!”

“Not for me, for obvious reasons, Arthur,” Douglas said.

“Right! Yeah. I forgot. You, Skip?”

“Not right now, thanks.”

“Oh.” Arthur looked crestfallen.

Douglas hmm-ed. “What has driven you into hiding, Arthur?”

Arthur shifted. “Well, the guys from Zombie Apocolypse seem quite nice? But their friends, Sharon and Lisa and Billy are really, really friendly. _Really_.” He toed the carpet. “Lisa said I was a cutie for a Deadie. That was kind of nice to hear.”

Martin choked. “What, you mean they, they…” He couldn’t even finish the thought.

“Oh, come now, Captain. You’re a man of the world,” Douglas said in his most condescending voice. “It’s not like fancies like this didn’t exist before The Rising. It’s just that much easier to indulge these days.”

“Indulge what?” Arthur asked, and there was no chance in hell that Martin was going to explain necrophilia to him. Thankfully, Douglas didn’t seem inclined to expand on his statement either.

“Why, their love of goth make-up, of course. What’s that you’ve got there?”

Arthur grinned. “Oh, Darren, he’s the drummer, he gave me this. It’s their latest album! ‘ _Four Horsemen_.’ Brilliant name, I love horses.” He passed the CD to Martin. The cover photo showed Zombie Apocalypse in their stage make-up, with pale skin, blood streaks, white contact lenses and artfully shredded clothes. Martin swallowed hard and gave it to Douglas to peruse.

“Uh, death metal isn’t really my thing.”

“But whyever not?” Douglas prodded. “I mean, look at this track list! _Rise up, Unredeemed, Rotten Apple, The Six Foot Climb_ … Arthur, tell them they’ve got a new fan, I need to buy this album. Perchance I can get an autographed copy. Do they use red pens?”

“Ah. Yes, about that,” Arthur said. He touched fingers to his mouth and looked at the black that came away. “The girls were asking where the other Deadie… I mean, PDSer! Where you were. They want to see you again.”

“No,” Martin said. “Douglas, as captain, I forbid you to leave the flight deck.”

“But what if I need to use the facilities?” Douglas said sweetly. “Sir.”

“You don’t _need_ to go to the toilet!”

“I might. To adjust my contacts,” Douglas said.

“You don’t! Do you?” Martin said. “Arthur, _please_ stop wiping at your mouth, it’s not helping.” It wasn’t helping Martin, at any rate - Arthur had managed to get the black lipstick off but in doing so, his own grey-tinted lips were revealed. Douglas’ eyes dropped to Martin’s hand and he snatched it away from his taser holster. He hadn’t even realised he was touching it for comfort.

“I was jesting, Sir,” Douglas said. “As you so rightly point out, I have no need for a toilet. Though regulations state that you can’t prevent me stretching my legs, undead or not.”

Martin looked away, a flush climbing his neck. God, he was overreacting again! He had to do better. “Right. Yes. I apologise, first officer. If you wish to… to promote MJN and visit the passengers… for any reason... I’m sure Carolyn will be pleased.” She was better pleased with her dead pilot anyway, it seemed. Martin clenched his jaw. He had to stop getting blindsided by his fears or he’d never make it at MJN. “Sorry.”

“Changed my mind,” Douglas said, though he sounded mollified. “Didn’t fancy having my arse pinched again anyway.”

“What, you can feel that?” Martin said, and smacked his forehead at the same time that Arthur exclaimed, “What, you too, Douglas?”

 

**Fitton**

“Yes, it’s good. No, actually…” Douglas paused. He sat at his desk, phone in hand, eyes idly tracking the shifting screensaver of photos on his laptop. At least Helena had collected and saved these remnants of his past, though his beloved collection of vinyl records was no more. “I’m the first officer. A bit embarrassing at my age, but that’s how these things go.”

“Oh, dear.” Helena was sympathetic. “It’s because of the… the PDS thing, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Douglas said. “A bit of a bugger. My captain is a babe in arms. But I’m happy to be working as pilot in spite of everything. Imagine if I’d wound up sweeping the streets.” Happy, for a relative value of happy. He knew only too well the prejudice against his kind. He could very easily have wound up doing menial labour, part of just another downtrodden minority. Not how he’d ever imagined his life or even his afterlife turning out. “Blue coverall, bucket in hand.”

“I don’t know, Douglas, blue always did suit you,” Helena said and the forced cheeriness in her voice made him close his eyes. “But I’m so glad things are finally looking up for you.”

“Thank you.” Helena had always been kind. Their marriage had been happy, though strained in the end by the demands of his work. The drinking hadn’t helped either. In the lovely home she’d made, he’d pretended not to notice how the rooms had rarely contained both of them together, Helena’s slow withdrawal. And then he’d died. She’d found someone to comfort her in her grief. Then his grave had been found empty. The papers annulling their marriage had arrived while he was still in the Treatment Centre. Bigamy, even with a dead man, was still frowned upon.

It hurt, how little he had to come back to. Arthur may be grateful for second chances, but not Douglas. He couldn’t blame Helena for leaving him. After all, he’d left two previous marriages. But Helena? Well, he had to be fair. He’d left her first when he’d made the choice not to change his lifestyle. And then the second, most final abandonment - his death.

“And how’s David?” The shape of his replacement’s name was bitter on his tongue, but Douglas knew the value of polite small talk. At least Helena kept in contact with him. The laptop screen shifted. Douglas grimaced at the wedding photo of himself, young and proud with his first wife, cutting the cake. God, what a cocksure idiot he’d been, full of youthful belief in immortality. Well, now he had it. It was horrible.

“He’s fine. His daughter Lucy is coming to stay with us during her school holiday. We’re planning several day excursions…”

Douglas made appropriate noises and comments while she chatted. The old photo of his wedding dissolved into a shot of him out with some friends, the remnants of dinner and wine glasses littering the table. Ah, food. What he wouldn’t give for even the humblest of edibles. Steaks and bacon butties were a thing of the past now.

When the conversation began to wind down, he made his excuses. “I’ll let you go now. I mustn’t tie up the phone too long. Charter business, I could get a call any time. Plus, my flat’s a tip. May as well get to it while I have the time.”

“Oh! Well, then,” Helena said. “It’s always good to hear from you, Douglas. And even better when you have such good news.”

He chuckled. “Yes. Thank you for letting me bend your ear now and then, Helena. Take care.”

“You too. Bye.”

He waited for her to hang up first before placing the phone next to the computer. It wasn’t that the depressing flat he now occupied needed cleaning. The lack of eating or drinking did cut down on dish washing and crumbs. His fridge contained nothing but vials of Neurotriptyline. And the toilet only got use as a resting place for books or the towels he used to remove make-up.

As much as Douglas needed the contact with people he’d known, he couldn’t stand the gap between his life then and now, the distance in acquaintance’s faces when they met him again. So he withdrew first. Ironic that he, who used to be the most gregarious of men, was in danger of becoming a hermit.

He sighed and got his dose of Neurotriptyline from the fridge. A wraith with pale eyes looked at him from the bathroom mirror, even the grey-touched rich brown of his hair washed out by the fluorescent light to a mouse shade. The ghost of Douglas Past. Or would it be Future? He tilted the side mirror, pushed his jumper down and felt for the injection point between his first and second vertebrae. The injector hissed as the drug entered him. He gripped the sink with one hand, lips compressed as images flashed before his eyes. God, how he hated this part, his sins in vivid colour flashing in his mind’s eye. Hated it so very much. He waited until the slideshow of horror finished, unclenched his fingers and dropped the injector back into its case.

“Finish the job, Richardson,” he told his reflection. “Don’t forget to be grateful to be… well, it’s not alive, now, is it? Affirmations. You are a Partially Deceased Syndrome sufferer, and it’s not your fault.” He bared his teeth and his reflection snarled back. Roughly he pushed up his jumper sleeves and began his daily visual surveillance of his extremities. With all sensations lost but that of pressure, it was too easy for a PDS sufferer to incur small injuries and cuts without noticing. Until a living person started screaming, that is. The habit had been impressed upon them in the Treatment Centre.

 _Just another daily task_ , they said. _You need to set a routine to help acclimatise to being back with the living._ Most of the self-help the Centre spouted was bollocks, but he had to admit, routine was… helpful. His job was of more use, though. It gave him a reason to get out of bed when all he wanted was to stay there and forget his un-life.

Habit. Routine. Schedules. So Douglas pulled up his trouser legs, checked his white calves and feet. He did retain enough fastidiousness to want to avoid leaking black everywhere if he did have a cut.

Douglas had _loved_ being alive. In retrospect, he’d certainly _lived_. He almost regretted it since the disparity of before and after was so great. God, he missed food. Sex, yes, lots of that. Warmth. Being warm. Being able to _feel_ warm. He was doing all right as things went; he was a master of self-deception, after all. Three failed marriages, an abandoned medical degree and his previous life as a functioning alcoholic had illustrated that. But some days?

He brushed off his trousers. He drew himself up and looked at the dead man in the mirror once more. “You’re a fine ex-figure of a man,” he said and winked in a grotesque parody of his former suave self. It was almost funny in the same way he was almost deceased. He flicked the light off.

Settling in a battered armchair with the laptop on a side table, he plugged earbuds in the jack. Even if his neighbours were oblivious to how loud their telly was in this thin-walled building, that didn’t mean that he was going to return the favour with opera at all hours. Perhaps later, if 3C's brat didn't stop scribbling slurs on his door. He’d need to buy some speakers first.

The screensaver shifted. A little girl, hand held by a woman whose upper body was out of frame. Dark hair in a plait, cheeks red in winter air, the expression caught just before the smile. Douglas swiped the touchpad and she disappeared, mischievous brown eyes replaced by the computer's desktop.

He opened the music player, put the buds in his ears and rested his head against the back of the chair as the baritone Don Quixote sang. _Mais, mon pauvret, c'est la chose fatale! Tu n'es qu'un homme enfin, tu veux vivre... et je meurs!_

Douglas closed his eyes, shutting out the world and let the music sweep over him.

God, he missed drinking.

 

**Fitton Airfield**

“Douglas, are you in here? Carolyn wants the fuel consumption calculations done before she gets back, you can’t just leave me all the - oh.” Martin drew up short inside the hangar. Douglas was doing his best to lounge in a worn folding lawn chair while a large man in coveralls tinkered with the innards of a riding mower. Douglas flapped the needed papers at him.

“Done and done, Captain. I was just telling Dirk about the glory days at Air England. Used to run an off-licence pub in one of the sheds. Ah, those were the days.”

Martin gaped at him. “An off-licence pub? Douglas!” He winced. He sounded like a shocked aunty.

“Drinks down the pub ain’t the same these days, that’s for sure,” the man rumbled in a bass voice and straightened up. “No drinking ain’t the least of it.” He turned his body towards Martin. “This the uptight pipsqueak everyone’s been talking about?”

“Dirk, my captain, Martin Crieff,” Douglas said, neither confirming nor denying. “Dirk’s the groundsman for Fitton Airfield.”

Martin stiffened and took a step back. The man was _huge_ , with hands like meathooks covered with fingerless gloves. Tattoos peeked from the neck of the coveralls and a dark moustache curved down both sides of his mouth. A halo head brace meant Dirk had to tilt his entire body to look Martin up and down pointedly. But that wasn’t what had sweat abruptly prickling on Martin’s back - it was the white eyes, the dead flesh torn and dry on the right side of Dirk’s face. Dirk… Dirk wasn’t wearing anything to conceal his deceased state.

The corner of Dirk’s mouth kicked up at his reaction. “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure.”

Martin nodded, mouth dry. He was staring, a rabbit caught in headlights. He tore his gaze away and looked over Dirk’s shoulder.

“What, cat got your tongue?” Dirk stepped closer, purposefully trying to intimidate him. “You ain’t got nothing to say? A friendly hello, maybe?"

Martin’s legs were rooted to the ground. “No! No, er. What I meant was, er, yes! It’s… You -” His eyes flicked to Dirk’s chest, to his face with the halo brace screwed into white flesh like some kind of Frankenstein’s monster, and to his chest again.

“I what?” Dirk said. “Not scared of me, are you?”

“Dirk,” Douglas said, chiding. “I’ve just started breaking him in as a proper pilot, don’t drive him off.”

Dirk ignored this and loomed. “Well?”

“You’re, you’re… really big,” Martin said and wished he could disappear, social panic, actual panic and embarrassment churning inside.

Douglas choked a laugh. Dirk grinned. “That’s what _she_ said.” He paused. “That all?”

Martin opened his mouth and what popped out was, “How did you die?” Oh, god. He’d turned into Arthur Shappey’s idiot babbling brother. Well, may as well go with it, his brain might hit nadir and come up rational. “Was - was it an accident?” Oh god, it was obvious - why had he said that? He looked into Dirk’s eyes and prayed the man couldn’t see the shiver that ran through him. He focussed on the moustache instead. It was quite the moustache. Very... interesting, that moustache. Bushy.

Again Dirk seemed taken aback. “This?” He touched his brace and chuckled, a low rumble in the huge chest. “Nah. Appendix did me in. This lot happened after, wouldja believe. Trashed my motorbike.” He scowled at the thought, seemingly more upset at the loss of his bike than the horrific injuries he’d incurred. “Fuck’s sake, wish the Centre would hurry up with the spine fusing operation. Can’t stand this rig.”

“Backbone of steel,” Douglas said. “But then there’s the surgery.”

Dirk swung toward him. “Not like another scar’s gonna bother me. Bloody road rash.”

Martin released a breath now that Dirk had moved away. “Is… is that why you don’t… “ Dirk turned back to him. Martin gestured weakly at his own face. “Cover up?”

Dirk snorted. “One reason. Can’t stand seeing all that muck on my face. Too orange, makes me look like, like…” He screwed up his eyes in thought.

“Freddie Mercury,” Martin said and slapped a hand over his mouth. Douglas roared with laughter. “Sorry, didn’t mean to say that,” Martin moaned behind his hand. “It - it’s the moustache.”

“It’s a proper biker moustache,” Dirk groused. “This some kind of joke about me lookin’ like a queen?”

“I guarantee Martin isn’t that original on purpose,” Douglas said. Martin wanted to protest but at least Douglas was deflecting Dirk. “Freddie Mercury wouldn’t be caught dead in that facial hair,” Douglas continued. “Or maybe he would? Alas, he left us too soon and now we’ll never know.”

“Right,” Dirk grunted. He turned unearthly eyes back on Martin. “Anyway. The other reason being, I don’t see why I should hide what I am. PDS sufferer, my arse. I ain’t _suffering_. There's this group I heard about, this Undead Liberation people? They say we’re the Redeemed and we should just show ourselves as we are.”

“Undead and proud?” Douglas asked. “Dead fists in the air?” He snorted. “Redeemed. Sounds like a fringe religious group. Can’t say I feel especially redeemed.”

Dirk rounded on him with a scowl. “And why would ya? All yer make-up, the contacts… you’re just hiding! I’m telling you, Douglas, you need to check their website, listen to a few home truths. They’re fightin' for justice, for equal treatment. You can’t say we don’t need that. You could help, your little airline is helpin’ already.” His fists clenched. “But maybe you don’t care to risk the cushy job.”

Martin swallowed and took another step away from Dirk’s anger. Douglas only looked noncommittal, posture still relaxed and easy in his chair. “I’m handling things in my own way, for the time being. Apologies if that doesn’t seem like a great deal - I’ve grown rather risk-averse these days. Well.” He stood and brushed off his trousers. “It’s been grand talking. Time to get back to my little airline. Martin, take the calculations?”

Dirk growled and turned back to the mower. “Yeah, you just toddle along pretendin’ you’re like them.” Douglas glared at the broad back.

Martin edged around him to take the proffered papers. “It.. it was nice to meet you, Dirk,” he said.

Dirk answered without turning. “You're alright, even if you’re piss-scared o’ me, Martin.” He grunted something like a laugh. “Huh. Freddie flamin’ _Mercury_.”

There was warning creak as Douglas struggled with the lawn chair. He yanked on the aged plastic arms. “Blasted things never want to fold.” With a snap, a splinter of plastic clattered on the floor as an armrest broke. The chair finally yielded and Douglas propped it against a tool chest. “Shall we?”

Martin hurried after Douglas’ longer stride to MJN’s portacabin office. Douglas flung the door open with more force than necessary and Martin caught it before it hit him. He stared. There was a black smear on the knob. He entered more slowly, holding the door by its edge. “Douglas?” he said. “Did - did you get some grease on your hands?”

“What?” Douglas said sharply. He saw the dark patch against the metal, looked at his hand and grimaced. “That damned chair! Must have caught myself on it.”

“Oh. Oh, god. Are you all right?” Martin’s heart began to beat faster. “Does it hurt?”

“Of course it doesn’t bloody hurt!” Douglas snapped. He didn’t notice Martin’s minute flinch as he poked at his palm. “Blast it all. It’s going to need stitches. Get the first aid kit.”

“I…” Martin gulped. “We have sutures in the kit?” He didn’t think he could handle that, pulling thread through cool flesh, seeing pale muscle twitch… He shook his head to dispel the buzzing and brought the first aid box to the desk.

“No, I’ll go to a clinic for that,” Douglas said. “That bottle, open it for me? And some of those dressings. Not that I need to worry about infection, but I need to wash it, see if it’s a clean slice.” He poured disinfectant in a thin stream, patted his palm with cotton and peered. “Ah.” He picked out a tiny piece of white plastic and flicked it away. “Help me bind this up, if you don’t mind?”

“Of course! Yes.” Martin picked up a roll of gauze and a pad of cotton in trembling fingers. “Could you…” The cut wasn’t long, perhaps an inch and a half but it looked deep. Black welled up, filling the lines in Douglas’ white palm. “I’ll - “I’ll just…” He gave the pad to Douglas. “J-just hold it there while, while I…” He fumbled with the gauze, unrolling too much.

Douglas looked from the wildly swaying swathe of gauze to Martin’s shaking hands and into his face. He swore under his breath. “Sit down. Right now, Martin. Yes, that’s it. Get your head down between your knees.”

Martin blinked at the weave in the carpet, gulping for air until it stopped swirling. “I… I can do it,” he croaked. “It… it’s just a cut.”

“Never mind, I’ve got it. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve bandaged myself.”

“I can try.”

“No, you can’t," Douglas said with such heavy finality that Martin closed his eyes.

“I am trying,” he said to the carpet.

Douglas sighed. “I can tell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Douglas' opera - "Mais, mon pauvret, c'est la chose fatale! Tu n'es qu'un homme enfin, tu veux vivre... et je meurs!"
> 
> [Ah, my poor friend, fate will brook no denial! Thou art only a man, thou wouldst live, I must die.] Don Quixote, by Massenet, Act V]
> 
> Yes, some humour to leaven the angst here and there. Thanks for any comments you leave, I enjoy them!


	4. Softly They Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin's past during the Pale Wars still haunts him. And after Martin lets something slip, he and Douglas come to an understanding.

**August, 2011, Wokingham**

Martin drums his hands on the steering wheel, waiting for the others. It’s been a week since the last supply run and heavens knew how long it’d been since the Wokingham Tesco was open properly, what with the disruption of deliveries. The government is doing what it can, he knows, but maintaining what is essentially a war on two fronts means that smaller communities are left to stick it out on their own as best they can. Martin wonders bitterly why the government doesn’t withdraw more troops from Afghanistan to handle the Rising, international agreements be damned. Since that December when the dead Rose, chaos has reigned.

Some people are scattered to remote areas, trying to escape the larger cities where there are more cemeteries and the population of the undead is larger. It makes some sense, Martin knows. Rotters - the undead - seem to hunt where there are larger concentrations of people. Scientists are not sure how much of their original mental processes remain but sometimes Rotters return to places that are familiar. Martin shakes his head to drive away the thought. Maybe it’s just coincidence - people are buried in cemeteries nearby so families can visit, after all. He’d put flowers on his father’s grave a few times himself before… before. Martin wonders what his dad would have done in a situation like this but drives the errant thought away. Best not to think about it.

Martial law applies in places like London, soldiers protecting civilians. In the countryside, he assumes the people who have fled cities are dealing with the undead in their own way. But in little Wokingham? Well, for once living in a small town had its advantages - community spirit. Martin has joined a neighbourhood coalition that works together to look out for each other and share supplies. People don’t go out by themselves any more, as Martin reassures his mother. He’d moved home and stayed. What else could he do?

Caitlin, with her traffic warden’s knowledge of roads is rooming with a group of self-made militia, setting patrol routes and safe passages. Simon has his own family to worry about in addition to attempting to run a town council that is facing a crisis unlike any the world has ever known before. One would think that with the development of a possible cure, this Neuro-whatever, that life would get back to normal. But even with bounties placed on Rotters to be brought in alive for testing and treatment, there were still rabid ones roaming. Life as Martin has known it has been suspended indefinitely.

A flicker of movement and he sees Janice and Roger push through the Tesco doors, laden with carrier bags, rucksacks and boxes. Martin jumps out and joins them, limping slightly. His damned calf is stiffening up again. He needs to do more physical therapy but oddly enough, it’s hard convincing anyone to go on short restorative walks with him and he can't bring himself to sign up for patrol duty. He opens the back of the van and they pile supplies inside.

Several trips later, they’re done and Martin pulls out onto the road. “Lots of root veg,” Roger says. “No fruit again, just more tinned stuff.”

Martin sighs. It’s been ages since he’s had anything as exotic as a banana. Still, the tinned stuff does the trick. “Good thing we’ve got everyone growing gardens then. I’d hate to die of scurvy.”

“Yeah, well, you might think it’s great but my mum? She's got a black thumb,” Janice says. “I swear the only things that don't die are the kale and cabbages, and the cabbages get _worms_.”

“Nutritious and delicious, slimy yet satisfying,” Roger quips, which makes Martin laugh. “ _The Lion King_ taught me that.”

“Screw the worms, I’m worried about Dad killing us all with flatulence,” Janice says. “Seriously? Kale? You can keep it. Hey, you’ve got cucumbers in your garden, don’t you? Fancy trading?”

“For kale? Not on your life,” Roger says. “You could sweeten the deal.” He makes fatuous kissing noises at her and she snorts and pushes his face away.

“Dream on. I’ll deal with the gas.”

Martin grins to himself. He likes doing the runs with these two, with their snark and banter. They’re funny, and he doesn’t have many genuine chances to smile these days. “Children, don’t make me pull over.”

“But Da!” Janice whines.

“Why’s he get to be Da when I’m older?” Roger asks. “Wait, no, never mind, don’t want to be your daddy. Unless that’s something you like?”

“Da, he’s being gross,” Janice complains but can’t stop the smirk spreading.

Martin keeps his face straight. “I will definitely pull over if you don’t do up your seat belt, young lady.”

“You wouldn’t do that, would you? Not when I’ve got you a present.” Janice pouts, fastens her seatbelt as instructed. “You’ve only been moaning for something for _ever._ ”

“I do _not_ moan,” Martin says but is intrigued. “What is it?”

“Promise you love me best first, Da,” she says.

Martin bites the inside of his cheek. “Y-yes, darling, I love you best.” He’s going to burst out laughing in a second.

“Okay then.” She rummages in a carrier bag and hands him something. It’s an apple. Slightly wrinkled with age and with a small soft bruise but definitely an apple.

“Oh,” Martin breathes. “Janice. You’re my favourite, definitely.”

“Ha. Knew it.” She leans over and plants a messy kiss on Martin’s cheek before turning to smirk at Roger.

“So not fair, Jan, he doesn’t even swing that way,” Roger complains.

“Found it under the fruit display. Must have rolled under.” She shrugs. “Anyway, thought you should have it. You’re always driving for all of us.”

“Everyone chips in for the petrol,” Martin points out. “S-so I don’t mind.”

“Still. Least I can do.”

“Thank you.” Martin places the apple with care in the drinks holder. “I… it’s very thoughtful.” They exchange a smile. Roger’s street is coming up and Martin flicks on the signal and makes the turn.

She must have been in the bushes. But to Martin it’s as if the figure comes out of nowhere. Janice’s scream is short and shrill as the van’s fender impacts the girl. “Oh, shit! Was that -? We just hit someone! Stop, stop!”

Martin brakes hard, panting. “Oh, god, please let her be okay, please let me not have killed someone!” He reaches for his buckle but Roger is already out the back of the van. Martin throws open his door and jumps down. Roger jogs to a girl in the pink dress lying crumpled in the road but slows. “Roger, what are you doing, you have to help her!” Martin shouts. But Roger is backing away, shaking his head.

“We aren’t helping her. She’s past it.”

The girl shifts, lifts herself to her one elbow. The other isn’t working properly, the arm at an odd angle. She doesn’t seem to notice the hindrance as she pushes herself to her knees. Blond hair straggles in filthy matts and black is seeping through the front of the dress. Pin-prick pupils focus on them and Martin’s heart stops. She opens her mouth and black spills down her chin. Behind him, Janice makes a choked, broken sound.

“It’s getting up, come on, get in the van, _get in the van_!” Roger shouts. “I’ll take care of it!” He fumbles for his gun and points it. Janice throws herself on him, yanking his aim away. The shot goes wild and Martin jumps.

“No, no, don’t, Roger!” Janice is screaming.

“Get off me! Get off, I’ll finish that Rotter -!”

The Rotter levers herself upright and Martin’s paralysis snaps. He grabs Roger’s shirt and drags him away, half-throwing him into the back of the van. “Janice, get in, we have to go!”

But Janice is standing spellbound before the girl as she sways forward, black mouth opening and closing. “Allie? Allie, don’t you remember me? It’s Janice,” Janice says.

“For fuck’s sake, Janice, move out of the way!” Roger yells. He’s still trying to aim, the barrel of the gun wavering as he tries to aim around Janice.

“No, you’re not killing her, that’s Allie!” Janice shouts back. The thing is closing the distance, eager for prey that stands still.

 _“Janice!”_ Martin screams. “Get in the van!” She’s not moving. Someone is going to die. Someone is going to _die_ if Martin doesn’t do something. He slams the rear door on Roger, the window spider-webbing as another shot goes wild. Roger curses him volubly. Martin gets his arms around Janice and drags her away just as the creature’s hand brushes her shoulder. He pushes her inside the van. He sprints to the driver’s side and tumbles in, shoving the van into gear and gunning the engine. They peel away as the Rotter - Allie - snarls in disappointment.

“You should’ve fucking let me kill it,” Roger says with venom. “Lost my cousin and aunt to one of those fuckers. They should just be put down.”

Martin pants, gripping the steering wheel with shaking hands. Janice is pale, tears streaking her face. He looks at her, concerned. “Roger, d-do us a favour. Call the authorities, tell them you spotted a Rotter on Blagrove Lane, just after the Oaklands turning. With - with luck they’ll capture it. Her. They won’t kill her.” He’s speaking more for Janice’s sake than his own. “They’re taking them alive. When - when they can.”

“Alive,” mutters Roger but pulls out his phone.

“She was in my year at school,” Janice says. “She… she took a bunch of pills. She killed herself.” She begins to weep in earnest. “Her name’s Allie. She was my mate.”

“Not anymore,” Roger says. “Or did you miss how she wanted to crack your skull open? That’s not her.”

“Roger, just, just shut up,” Martin says between chattering teeth. Reaction is setting in and shudders rack his body. “Please. Please, just shut up right now. Okay?”

Wendy is waiting at the door when he pulls in, having delivered supplies to several houses. “Martin, love,” she says. “You look exhausted! Poor dear. How was the trip?”

Martin forces a smile on his face. “Fine. Fine. No problems.” None, except for Janice’s heartbreak and Roger’s rage. He positions himself in front of the van, hiding the fender from his mother’s view. “I - I’ve got something special for you. An apple.”

Wendy smiles. “An apple! Lovely. But don’t you want it for yourself?”

“No,” Martin says. “Definitely not.” He isn’t sure if he’ll want another apple again for a long time after today. “A treat for you. Is that dinner I smell?”

“Yes, just a casserole,” Wendy says.

“B - better check on it. Don’t worry, I’ll get the groceries.” Anything to keep his mother from seeing the state of the van. The bullet hole in the rear window. The dent. He’ll take the van in for repairs to an acquaintance who can be convinced not to let the news get back to his mother. He hopes she never finds out. But for tonight, all he can do is carry in the groceries and have dinner with his mother. When she’s in front of the telly he’ll sneak out with a bucket and sponge to scrub away the black smears on the van’s silver paint.

He hopes he won’t vomit.

 

 

**Fitton, 2013**

Martin surfaced from the dream with a gasp, heart pounding. He reached for his phone and checked the time. Four a.m. He groaned. God, he was so tired. It was the third time this week he’d been woken by nightmares, no doubt courtesy of the trigger of Douglas’ black-bleeding palm. He was only glad that he had his own little place in Fitton now and his neighbours couldn’t hear him during his worst dreams. He turned over and thumped his pillow into a better shape. He needed sleep, they had a flight today. The problem was that sometimes he would plunge back into another nightmare on the heels of the first, waking him again.

He pressed his lids closed and tried to imagine the sensation of flying, the lift he felt when in the air. But sleep wasn’t to be. When birds began to twitter outside, he flung back the covers and limped to the kitchen to make a pot of extra-strength coffee.

 

 

**Jersey**

“Captain, if I didn’t know better, I’d have said that you’re the dead one between us, not I,” Douglas said. “You look terrible.”

Martin did look ghastly, dry-skinned and pale with dark circles under his eyes. Martin glared but Douglas pretended not to notice. Martin sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Can you radio for the weather over the Channel?”

“I certainly can,” Douglas said. He considered Martin’s wan face and decided he’d better shoulder the responsibility and give Martin a break. “Even better, I can take control. Really, are you sure you should be flying? I thought you would dislocate your jaw on that last yawn.”

“I’m fine,” Martin insisted but the mere mention had him yawning again. “Really.”

“No, not really,” Douglas said. “You look as if you haven’t slept in a week.”

“Yeah, well,” Martin muttered. “I get that way sometimes.” He shifted in his seat, stretching his leg and rotating the ankle.

“Stiff leg?” Douglas asked. “I suppose one benefit of my condition is that I don’t feel the old aches from my sporting days. Ironic, but I suppose becoming an overly uptight airline captain so young has aged you prematurely. A hot water bottle and some liniment should set you right up. And a nap.”

“It’s not a sporting injury,” Martin protested, the words half garbled by another yawn.

“Captain,” Douglas said, his irritation growing. “Be sensible. We have about forty minutes until we reach Jersey. We have no passengers and Arthur’s not going to tell his mother if you have a snooze.”

“I can’t, there’s supposed to be a, a... A living person in command -”

“No, the regulations state only that one of the pilots not be Partially Deceased. Don’t try to regs-lawyer me, I did read them carefully, as befits the conditions of my employment.“ Martin’s continued reluctance was making him even more determined. “You don’t even have to leave the flight deck. Just tip that ridiculous hat over your eyes and _let me fly_.”

“No,” Martin said.

“For god’s sake, stop being a stubborn child and see reason!” Douglas snapped. “You’re in no fit state! What are you afraid of, that I’ll crash the plane to spite you?”

“I don’t want to,” Martin shouted back. “I _can’t_ , because the minute I close my eyes some damned Rotter is going to run me down and _catch_ -” He broke off, visibly appalled at what he’d just said. “I’m, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean -”

Douglas clenched his jaw and counted to ten before answering. “And that is why you’re turning control over to me, Martin.”

“I’m… you’re right, I’m just so tired, I’d never -”

“I know, and that’s why I’m letting it go this once.” Douglas said, and let the merest edge flow into his voice to relieve the bubbling anger within. “You undersized, annoying, uptight fucking _pillock_.”

“Uh?” Martin blinked. “What did you just call me?”

“Something to even the scales a bit. Let’s strike a deal - don’t _ever_ call me a Rotter, and I’ll use only minor forms of vituperation on you in future. Sound fair?”

Martin flushed to roots of his hair. “Yes. I’m sorry. That… that was extremely…”

“Bigoted of you?”

“I was going to say _unprofessional_ , but…” He sighed. “You have control, First Officer Richardson.”

“I have control,” Douglas repeated. Martin dropped his hands in his lap and leaned back, exhaustion lining his face.

“I still don’t think I can sleep,” Martin said in a low tone. “I’m sorry, Douglas.”

“Well, who could, locked up all tight and cosy with my charming self. Though in my indecorous past, there were those who would’ve jumped at the chance. Alas, poor Douglas.” A glance showed him his little joke had gone awry. Martin’s brow was furrowed, lips tightening. Oh, sod it, it was time to get a few things out in the open. “Oh, come now, my captain, it’s not as if I’m suddenly going to leap the console and try to eat your brain. You don’t seem to use it much anyway. I highly doubt it’s more than a mouthful.”

Martin’s mouth fell open, his expression caught between horror and affront. “I - I - I… you can’t…! I thought you weren’t going to insult me any more!”

“No, I only said I’d censor myself,” Douglas said blithely. “Somewhat. You’re quite safe - it’s not as if I have any appetite since my… rehabilitation. Pity. The threat of alcoholism and potential liver failure no longer looms on my horizon, which I suppose is all right. Not really an even trade-off in my books. But I do miss… food.” Douglas drawled the last word with all the longing of a man who hadn’t had normal food in years.

Martin swallowed a few times before he managed, “...Oh? Oh. Right.”

“Though I do pity you,” Douglas said.

“What? Why?”

“I saw Arthur loading your catering,” Douglas said, wrinkling his nose. Martin choked a laugh and Douglas found himself grinning. “That’s better, Captain. I was beginning to wonder if your sense of humour was fully deceased. Now I see it’s only partially.”

“And this is you being less insulting, is it?” Martin said. “How lucky I am.” His sarcasm was weak but at least his face had more colour, Douglas noted.

“My first ex-wife always said my sense of humour would be the death of me,” Douglas remarked. “Imagine how happy I was to call her and tell her otherwise.”

“Oh, my _god._ Douglas! You - you didn’t actually!”

“No, not really.” Douglas took a moment to check dials and correct their flight path minutely. “Martin, you are in no danger. I’m a good old dog, I roll over when regulations require, I’ve had my shots. You saw the last one the airport medic gave me. Hamfisted amateur that he is.”

“He’s licenced. How is he an amateur?” Martin said.

“Because he uses the injector as if he’s trying to drill to China through my spine. I know how to give injections, I trained to be a doctor before packing it in to be a pilot.”

“Really?” Martin’s brows lifted. “Huh. I can see that. Why did you quit?”

“Wasn’t my thing. Too gloopy. Being a pilot, now… Glamour, a uniform that’s great for pulling, travel, money... “ Not that his current salary was a patch on what he’d formerly been used to, nor was he doing much pulling these days. Douglas shoved the thought away and smirked at Martin. “Who wouldn’t want to be a veritable sky-god?”

Martin’s head bobbed in a slow nod. “I always wanted to be a pilot. But a sky-god?” He laughed in self-deprecation. “I don’t think I’m quite up to that class yet. You… you were a senior captain at Air England, weren’t you?”

“I was.” And the slight wistfulness in his own words silenced Douglas a moment. “The thing is, Martin, that in order to even be here, in the flight deck with you -”

“Locked in,” Martin pointed out.

“As you say, locked in with _you_ for my sins...”

“Hey!”

“As unfortunate as it is for me,” Douglas smiled at Martin’s indignation. “ _And_ the reverse, you being confined with me like a fellow animal - it is safe. The regulations state -”

“I know the regulations!” Martin snapped. “Applicants for a Special Issuance of Medical Certificate and Assisted Special Issuance under Title 14 of the Code of Regulations, subsection concerning Partially Deceased Syndrome Sufferers, Section Five states that because of the risk involved with the condition, you are required to take Neurotriptyline not less than once every twenty four hours and on days when you fly the prescribed dosage is to be administered by or in view of a duly licensed medical technician!”

Douglas narrowed his eyes at Martin. “That. That’s not natural.”

Martin was defensive. “What? I’m supposed to know the regs!”

“No, not that, though your memory is impressive. But I don’t think you even took a breath during that recitation. Gosh. You sure you’re not undead?”

Martin choked. “You - you can’t make jokes like that!”

“Who better?” Douglas said with a wry smile. “Apologies. My humour is a little black these days.”

“‘S’alright,” Martin said, and he was, to Douglas’ view. His shoulders had relaxed from their tense posture.

“All in all, my point is - and it’s a roundabout path I’ve taken to coax you along to it - is that you’ll be fine. You don’t even need to rattle off the regs governing the use of that taser you sometimes stroke. I’m not going to harm you, though I will, on occasion and as needed to keep from going mad locked in this steel tube, take the piss. Don’t worry.”

“But - sometimes. Well, it’s just that sometimes I can’t help...” Martin grimaced down at his hands.

“‘Sometimes’ - well, that I can deal with. So long as we have an understanding. Do what you need to do, and take the advice of a sky-god with over twenty years of experience, Captain. If you are feeling nervy, concentrate on your flying. You’ve improved a great deal -”

“Thanks for that.” Martin scowled at him, but it was half-hearted.

“But there’s nothing like minutiae for taking your mind off things.”

“Okay.” Martin yawned again. “I take your point. Thanks… for being decent about this.”

Douglas hummed in acknowledgement. “Stay in here and try to get some sleep while Arthur and I handle the pick-up. I’ll operate back.”

“I suppose you’ll just threaten to eat my brain if I don’t,” Martin mumbled. His eyes were half-closed.

“I already told you, Captain,” Douglas said. “Not appetising enough. Small portions were never my thing.”

“You’re horrible, first officer Richardson.” But Martin had a small smile on his weary face and that was good enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update this weekend, since the next chapter dovetails nicely with this, what with actual story momentum picking up. Look for the second update in a couple hours, after I finish tests.
> 
> Thanks for any and all kudos and comments, I reply to all of them!


	5. Tattoos, Drunks and Fools

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Birling Day! Arthur astonishes Douglas with the wisdom of innocents, and reveals something Carolyn will either love or roll her eyes over. Martin is mistaken for a dead man to his dismay, and Carolyn flexes her claws in Arthur's defence.

**March, 2013, Fitton**

“Is Mum still here?” Arthur poked his head in the portacabin, eyes darting around.

“No, she’s gone to pick up Mr Birling. She’ll call us when she’s thirty minutes out from the airfield,” Martin said. “Why? Did you need to ask her something about the catering?”

“Oh, no, catering for Mr Birling is dead easy. Roast beef sandwiches and this.” Arthur shook a bottle at them. Douglas whistled and took it away.

“That’s no way to treat a fine whiskey, Arthur. Twenty five year single malt Talisker? Mm. Was the nasty boy mean to you, darling?” he crooned to the bottle, brushing it off with his sleeve.

“You sound like you’re in love,” Martin commented from his position over fuel calculations.

“Not love, though I’ve had a few flings with Lady Liquor here,” Douglas said. He sighed and set the bottle upright on the desk. “I’m getting nostalgic in my dotage.”

“But Mum won’t be back for a bit?” Arthur had to restrain himself from bouncing on his toes. “Can I show you chaps something? I’ve been wanting to show it off for a while.”

“Show what off?” Martin asked.

“But you have to promise you won’t tell Mum! She’ll kill me. Okay, not _kill_ kill me, but you know.”

“I think I do,” Douglas said. “Though I don’t hold out much hope for your mother not finding out whatever it is on her own.” He looked rueful a moment. “As I happen to know.”

Arthur’s face fell.

“We promise anyway, Arthur,” Martin said, seeing his expression. “Don’t we, Douglas?”

Douglas shrugged. “Certainly. Now, young Shappey, don’t keep us in suspense. It’s obvious you’ll burst if you keep it to yourself much longer.”

Arthur beamed at their interest. “You know Dirk? How he’s got all those great tattoos? I’ve always kind of wanted one, but when I tried, you know, _before_ , I sort of passed out when the guy first started. So I have this black spot like a freckle, but it was going to be a flying heart. Tattoos hurt! A lot! But I saw Dirk’s and I thought, _well, Arthur, it’s not going to hurt if you do it now!_ And so I did!”

“You found a tattoo artist for, for _PDSers_?” Martin said.

“Sure! Dirk told me. He has lots from when he was alive, of course. But he had to get a touch-up over his appendix surgery scar. It was part of a huge snake that went all around him.”

“I trust he didn’t show you the tail end,” Douglas said. Martin made a strangled noise.

“No, don’t be silly, why would he? He likes _girls,_ ” Arthur said. "I thought everyone knew that!" Gosh, Douglas was thick sometimes. Douglas opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Anyway, he told me where I could find a guy in Fitton who’d do it. I thought it’d be cool to get one over some of my scars, too. Look!”

He pulled up his vest and shirt to his lower ribs, turning to show them the side of his belly. “What do you think?”

“It’s certainly… different,” Douglas said. “Why didn’t you get the winged heart?”

“I was going to! A heart with ‘MJN’ on it would be cool. But then I thought that might be silly and maybe I should put ‘Mum” on it, because she’s my mum. But next I got worried that she might not like that if she found it, so I got something we both love. So… if she does find out like you said, Douglas, she might not be too bothered. Do you like it, Martin?”

Martin had gone all weird like he sometimes did, where his freckles seemed extra dark. He swallowed and dragged his gaze up to Arthur’s. “It’s… it’s really well done,” he said.

Douglas looked between Martin and Arthur. “Yes, the artist was very skillful. Your dog? Why don’t you cover up and show Martin a picture of the real thing?” Arthur looked down at the tattoo and his translucent white skin marked with traceries of veins and the ridges of scars from the accident.

“Oh, right! Right. Sorry, Skip, I know some people are funny about scars and stuff.” Arthur dropped his shirt and dug out his phone. “It’s Snoopadoop, our cockapoo. See? This is the photo I showed the artist.” A smiling brown dog panted out of the picture and Martin managed a smile.

“Snoopadoop?”

“I named her. She’s really sweet.” Arthur swiped to another photo of Snoopadoop on her back, waiting for tummy rubs. “I know she was a good girl and kept Mum company when - well, when I wasn’t around. So? Do you think Mum might like my tattoo after all?”

“I honestly can’t…” Martin paused. “You know, I think she might.”

“Brilliant! I’m glad. You know, Dirk didn’t think I should get it.”

“Oh, Dirk said that, did he? Why?” Douglas raised a brow.

Arthur tucked his phone away. “Oh, er. It’s this Undead Liberation Army thing? I’d heard about it from a few PDS friends, they really seem to be into it. Dirk thinks I could be like a poster child for them, ‘cuz I’ve got a good job and go lots of places. And what with how MJN helps PDSers.”

“He says that, does he?” Douglas was grim.

“Undead… Liberation _Army_?” Martin asked. He swallowed. “That… that doesn’t sound very friendly. A bit… confrontational. ‘Association’ would be a better word than ‘Army’.”

“Yeah, you’re right, Skip! Or maybe ‘Club’. Though that makes it sound more like a football team. Hey, that’d be brilliant! ULC!” Arthur shook his head and dragged his mind back to the topic at hand. “But no, Dirk thought getting tattoos to cover up my scars was like hiding what I was? Which was a bit stupid, I told him. Normal people get tattoos on scars all the time and there’s no problem with _that_ , so why should it be different just ‘cuz I’m not living?”

“You told Dirk he was stupid?” Martin said. His mouth was hanging open. Douglas was smirking. Arthur smiled back.

“No, that would be rude. I said his _idea_ was stupid, that’s not the same thing. You can change ideas, right? Though I guess you can also change yourself if you’re being a bit stupid. I did say that it was my body and my choice, which kind of shut him up. He’s got _loads_ of tattoos. If tattoos are going to change what people think of you for the worse, then why’d he get all his?”

“Great wisdom from one so young,” Douglas said. “Arthur Shappey, I’d no idea you were so deep.”

“Thanks, Douglas!” Douglas was really clever, so it pleased Arthur to hear the compliment.

“But, but what about this Undead Army thing?” Martin wanted to know. “What’s that all about?”

Douglas snorted but Arthur answered. “Oh, I don’t know. I went to the website, and there’s this creepy guy in a skull mask who calls himself The Undead Prophet? And it’s all about fighting back against our living oppressors and going around not wearing makeup and how being undead is even better than being alive?”

Martin blinked rapidly. Douglas pursed his lips. “What did you think of it, Arthur?”

“Oh, I didn’t like it,” Arthur said.

“Really?” Douglas lifted a brow. “Tell us why. I’m interested in your opinion. Martin is, too. Aren’t you, Martin?” He kicked Martin’s ankle and Martin jumped.

“Oh! Yes. P- please go on.”

Wow, they wanted his opinion? Brilliant. Arthur thought a moment before speaking slowly. “Okay. So... I read some of the stuff and watched a few videos. And… well, I wondered - why does the Undead Prophet wear a mask?”

“He… he’s probably worried about being recognised and the police watching him,” Martin said.

“Well, yeah, sure, I get that, and maybe it’s all, like, supposed to be mysterious and cool? Like Batman! And if he wears a mask, it could be anybody. It could be Douglas! Or me! So maybe people like that, imagining they’re leading this army thing. But… it doesn’t make sense to me,” Arthur said.

Douglas hm’ed. “No?”

“No!” Arthur said. “If, like, the ULA is all about being yourself and showing the world what you are, why does the Prophet wear a mask? Okay, like Martin said, maybe he’s afraid of the police. But if he’s a PDSer and telling us to be proud and not wear makeup, why is he hiding himself? It doesn’t make sense. And it’s kind of hard to trust a guy in a skull mask with a creepy voice, don’t you think?”

Martin nodded. Douglas tilted his head. “Yes, it is a bit hypocritical. Good job spotting that dichotomy, Arthur.”

Arthur didn’t really understand what ‘dichotomy’ meant but it was apparent that Douglas was praising him. He puffed up a bit with pride. “And… and it’s all just _wrong_. Okay, I can see some of their points, especially in the older posts. How PDSers need to help each other, since people aren’t very fair to them because of… because of what some of us did. Or are. It’s not like we can help that we came back! And MJN is helping, so I’m helping too, like the website says. But - some of the newer articles and videos, it’s all just how we are the Redeemed and immortal and _better._ And that’s just very… very _not okay_.” Arthur drew in a deep breath. “If being better because I’m a PDSer means I’m better than Mum? Or Martin? I don’t think that’s right. I’m not better than living people. Or worse! I’m… I’m just _people_.”

Douglas gave him a slow clap. “Well spoken, Arthur. Don’t you agree, Martin?”

Martin’s mouth was hanging open a little. He blinked. “Oh. Yes. Yes. You… that’s a good point, Arthur. I… you’ve given me something to think about.” Martin’s brow was furrowed a little, but not in a bad way, Arthur thought. He grinned at Martin and shrugged.

“Dirk said I’m an idiot. But maybe he needs to think he’s better than other people. I don’t think he’s very happy,” he said. “I wouldn’t be very happy if I had to wear that head brace. But just think of the brilliant dancing he could do!”

“What?” Douglas asked, thoroughly diverted. “What kind of dance do you see our Dirk doing?”

“The robot dance, of course! It’d be perfect!” Arthur demonstrated, moving his hands and torso in stiff movements, making whirring noises. Martin burst out laughing.

“Please,” Douglas begged. “Please tell me you asked him to dance for you, Arthur. I’ll die again happy if you did.”

Arthur puffed out his cheeks and tucked his hands behind his back. “Well…” Douglas started chuckling and Martin pressed hands over his mouth, gurgling. “He looked really, really surprised. Then he said something about, ‘First Freddie Mercury and now this,’ and told me to go away. He was kind of gripping a big spanner when he said it and it was a little scary. So I did.”

“Oh my god,” Martin said. He hiccuped and caught his breath. “He must think we’re all idiots in MJN.”

“I’m fine with that,” Douglas said. “So long as he lays off about that ULA rubbish around us.”

“It wasn’t all rubbish!” Arthur protested. “I quite liked the message boards. People sharing stories about their old lives, giving advice. Some of it was a bit sad, but I think it helps them to tell other people. Was going to create a username and chime in, but then Mum came home and I shut off the computer really quickly.

"You said that before, Arthur," Martin said, hesitant. "About how... how it's like a secret handshake, telling your stories."

"Well, I don't mean it's like a secret club or anything, really, Skip." Arthur said. "I'd be happy to tell anything you want to know. Except my dying! I can't remember that bit."

Douglas snorted. "Why would you?"

"Because most people... I mean PDSers! They remember what they were doing before they went, right? The last thing I remember was singing along to the radio in my friend Kate's car. We were going to Bertie's birthday party. It was August 27th." He heaved a doleful sigh. "At least Kate wasn't hurt. Saw her last week for a coffee date. Well, she had coffee. I just dumped sugar in mine and stirred it. It was weird. She cried all over, but I told her it wasn't her fault - the other car went through the light after all. And it's not like I was gone forever - I'm back now!"

"Okay," Martin said. "So, you had a car accident. W- what's the mystery in that?"

"His scars," Douglas supplied. "Healed, not just sutured or stapled together." Martin's mouth formed an O of realisation. Douglas tilted his head at Arthur. "You don't know what day you died? Looks like you had maybe six weeks of healing, from what I can tell."

"I know! You could check your headstone," Martin said. His face fell. "Oh, wait. No... a lot of the cemeteries are still under quarantine. Sorry."

Arthur shrugged, "Mum probably knows but I don’t want to ask. Guess the accident was pretty bad if I died anyway after all that time like you said."

Douglas looked as if he were having an unpleasant thought but shook his head. "But as you say - you're back now."

"I, I guess it's lucky in, in... in a way," Martin said. "I, I mean! Um. A lot of ... PDSers were, were... killed."

"I guess being buried in obscurity in the countryside has its perks," Douglas said.

"I wasn't!" Arthur said. "I was buried in London!" He grinned at Martin's wide-eyed look. "Was in a walled cemetery, had nowhere to go, so I was picked up."

"Picked up?" Douglas was frowning at him. "You must be joking! Most of the ones that rose in London were picked off by the Army in the first few weeks.”

“Oh, I didn’t come back right away,” Arthur said.

“Really? But I thought -” Martin stopped as if unsure of how to finish the sentence.

“That all the Partially Deceased rose in December,” Douglas finished. “You didn’t, I take it.”

“Nah,” Arthur said. “The Centre said I was a special case. Crawled out in January sometime. Which was lucky, right? Because they were starting to capture PDSers by then instead of just, well, you know.” He shrugged.

“You rose _a month later_?” Martin stared at him.

Douglas was grinning. “That shouldn’t be a shock to you, Martin. You do know Arthur’s always been a little slow.”

“Yeah!” Arthur grinned back. “You should have seen Mum trying to get me out of bed for school when I was young! I guess being underground must have been like that, all dark and snuggly. Who wants to get out of a comfy bed, especially in winter?”

“I understand completely,” Douglas said. Martin was biting his lower lip, eyes crinkled up and shiny. Arthur was glad Martin liked his story. But he did want to know something.

“Anyway, I can’t tell you exactly how I died, except it was probably from the accident. How about you, Douglas?”

Martin sat up. “Y-yes, Douglas. I… I’m, er-”

“Morbidly curious?” Douglas supplied. “Shall we make a bet of it? If you and Arthur can guess the nature of my death within ten questions, I’ll give not only full disclosure, but also procure the phone number of that dark-eyed stewardess that was eyeing you up in Brussels.”

“Ooh! That sounds like fun,” Arthur said. “Did you die in a fire?”

“In a fire? Does it look like he died in a fire?” Martin exclaimed.

Arthur regarded Douglas sheepishly. "Yeah, you're right. He doesn't look toasty enough."

"And proud to be so, though I've been told my heart is warm enough." Douglas grinned at Martin. Martin ignored him and wrinkled his nose at Arthur.

“You’ve wasted a question, Arthur! Anyway, I’m not sure I want to play," Martin said. "She, she wouldn’t be interested because, because…”

“You’re not her type, and she’s not yours?” Arthur supplied. Martin went red. Oops. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that, if the gleam in Douglas’ eye was anything to go by, but really! Douglas couldn’t tell? Thankfully, Douglas didn’t delve into Martin’s ‘type’ any further.

“What, not interested in an airline captain with pre-mortem rigor mortis? That captain’s hat is wasted on you.”

Martin’s flush faded slightly. “Yes, well… I mean, no, why do you have to be so, so…”

“Me-ish?” Douglas said. “Because I can.”

“I don’t want her number, regardless! I’m not a charity case. But, but, if we guess correctly, then… then you have to call me ‘sir’ in front of everybody,” Martin said.

“Doesn’t he do that already?” Arthur asked.

“With _proper respect!_ ” Martin said. “Not his usual sarcasm. And, and, he can call you Mr Shappey in the same spirit.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Arthur said. “Sounds like he’d be talking to my dad, I wouldn’t even know it was me! I don’t need a prize, really. I just wanted to know. That’s enough for me.”

“Fair enough,” Douglas said. “And if you lose, I get the cheese tray.”

Martin exploded. “You can’t even eat it!”

“No,” Douglas agreed. “But I would get the pleasure of watching your face scrunch up with frustration.”

“What would you even _do_ with it?” Martin wanted to know.

Douglas tapped his lips. “Mm. Make a cheese sandwich and use it in a swap to eventually trade my way up to a Lexus? Use the Brie to spackle nail holes in my flat? It doesn’t matter, really, so long as I have it and you don’t.”

“Douglas! You are such a child!"

Douglas smiled at Martin’s indignation. “And there’s the expression I so enjoy. Well? How about it?”

Martin sniffed. “Fine. Was it health-related, like Dirk’s appendicitis?”

Douglas shook his head. “Arthur?”

Arthur thought. “Did you… did you meet a midget on a train who gave you free tickets to the circus, and when you went there, you were enjoying the clowns and elephants but then -”

“Arthur, it's not likely he was crushed by a maddened elephant!” Martin said. “Are you sure this is a line of reasoning you want to continue?”

“I’m counting ‘death by elephant’ as a guess, by the way,” Douglas said. "Though it would have been spectacular."

“Hey! That wasn’t even framed as a question!”

“I wasn’t done!” Arthur protested. “And, and when the lady in the spangled leotard did a somersault from the elephant’s head, did you inhale a peanut and choke to death?”

Douglas’ eyes crinkled but he shook his head solemnly. “No, Arthur, I didn’t choke on a peanut.”

“Oh.” Arthur deflated. “I almost did once. It was a pretty amazing flip, though.”

“Oh, my god,” Martin said. “We’ll never find out if you keep asking the questions. Not health-related, not choking, not circus _elephant_. Was it an accident?”

“Hm. Closer,” Douglas allowed.

“Oh, I know!” Over Martin’s groan Arthur plowed on. “Were you in the shower singing away and you didn’t notice the bar of soap on the floor and when you turned to rinse your hair, you stepped on it and slipped and bashed your head on the bath?”

Douglas raised his brows. “That’s a pretty specific question. Another near-death experience culled from your own life, I presume? No, Arthur, I didn’t -” The phone on Carolyn’s desk rang. He snapped it up. “MJN, how may I - yes? Yes, everything’s tickety-boo on our end. Martin filed the plans an hour ago. Right then.” He disconnected. “Looks like the battle for the cheese tray must be continued at a later date - Mr Birling will be upon us shortly. Time to get the old girl warmed up. Martin?”

“Yes, fine,” Martin sighed. “Not like we were going to win your respect anyway. You take the checklist, I’ll do the walk around?”

“As _Sir_ commands.”

“One of these days you’ll say ‘sir’ properly,” Martin griped.

“I’m sure we’ll all await that day with breathless anticipation,” Douglas said. “Or Arthur and I will, at least.”

Arthur giggled at Martin’s expression. “Don’t worry, Skip, we have to breathe. How else would we talk?"

“I’m beginning to think I can live without Douglas talking, then,” Martin muttered. Douglas chuckled and followed him out the door.

 

 

**Cardiff**

“Arthur! My dear boy! So good to see you again, and dare I say welcome back to the land of the living? Or at the very least, congratulations on having waded part-way back through the river Styx!" Mr Birling boomed.

Mr Birling was… well, Martin didn’t know what he’d expected, really. A wealthy man, obviously, if he could afford to hire a charter to take just himself to the Six Nations Rugby Final. Elderly, lean and with intimidatingly bushy eyebrows, Mr Birling was all energy and aggressively posh accent.

“Hello, Mr Birling!” Arthur said. “It’s good to see you too! However did you get to the Finals the past three years?”

Mr Birling shook his head. “Oh, dark times, dark times without your dear mother and MJN shepherding me about, best not to dwell, hm? And who are these new faces?”

Carolyn indicated Douglas and himself with a gesture. “My new pilots. First Officer Douglas Richardson and Captain Martin Crieff.”

Douglas made no move other than to civilly nod. Martin eyed him and decided to fill in the breach of etiquette. He stepped forward, hand out. “It’s our pleasure to serve you today, Mr Birling.”

“Quite sure it is, young chap,” Mr Birling said, making no move to shake Martin's hand.

Puzzled, Martin dropped his hand and looked at Carolyn. Her smile was fixed and professional.

“Aren't you going to shake Skip’s hand?" Arthur wanted to know.

"Press the flesh? With him?" Mr Birling said. He flashed a brief smile. “No, my dear lad, I'm really, really not! Bound to be clammy, eh?”

Martin flushed. “I’m - I'm not _dead_!”

The only surprise Mr Birling showed was limited to a single blink. He looked down his nose at Martin. “That’s what I mean, my boy, sweaty palms not the thing at all,” he blustered. “Icky. Death brags not that you wander in his shade, it’s obvious. It’s you then, Richardson?” He looked between Douglas and Martin. “Must say, what a pity.”

“It’s a pity I’m not dead?” Martin said in blank astonishment. Douglas coughed.

“I’m sure Mr Birling only meant that it’s clearly a tragedy that both Arthur and I were struck down in the prime of our lives.”

“No, didn’t mean that at all, but well done you,” Mr Birling said. "Wish it had been my wife’s fate, but she's too awful to have done the decent thing and too enormous for even a swarm of zombies to finish. Ha! Not that they didn't try. Cool hand with a hunting rifle, Elizabeth." He ignored the varied reactions to his callousness and clapped his hands. “Shall we get on? Flight and rugby finals wait for no man, be he living or not!”

“Of course. I’ll show you to your seat and leave you in Arthur’s capable hands,” Carolyn said.

“Lead on, good lady!” Mr Birling said. “Are you quite sure you won’t join our merry little band? It’s been years since I’ve had the pleasure of your service. Not that I think your boy’s not capable, I’m sure dying couldn’t have made him any slower.”

Martin watched as Carolyn’s expression shifted to one of mild thought, her gaze moving from Arthur to their client. “You know, you are quite right, Mr Birling. I think it will be a nice change from the usual boy’s club atmosphere. Arthur, don’t forget the whisky tumblers and that extra bottle in the fridge.” She led Mr Birling up the steps into G-ERTI.

A moment passed. Finally Martin burst out, “What a _horrible_ old man!”

“What, because he thought you were one of us?” Douglas said.

“No - well, yes, that wasn’t great but he wouldn’t even shake hands when he knew I wasn’t!" Martin was furious. “He does know you can’t catch deadness by association, doesn’t he? That’s - that’s just stupid!” He scarcely noticed Douglas’ face relaxing. "Why does your mother put up with him, Arthur?”

Arthur toed the ground. “Well. He was a client for years before, and he does give big tips. So, there’s that. He’s not so bad, really.”

“He as good as called you stupid to your face! And gloated over killing Partially Deceased p-people! Yes, he _is_ that bad, actually!”

“Calm down, Martin,” Douglas said. “The flight to Cardiff and back is scarcely a half hour each way. You won’t be in much contact with him.”

“Well, I pity Arthur, then. I’d never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad Carolyn’s going to be along,” Martin said. “Sorry, Arthur, but your mum’s terrifying sometimes.”

“I know!” Arthur beamed at him. “Isn’t she brilliant?” His face fell. “But what did she mean about another bottle? The good tumblers are already on G-ERTI, along with the Talisker.”

“I think she meant the bottle of apple juice,” Douglas said slowly. “Mr Birling doesn’t seem the type to share the good stuff in the unlikely event he asks her to have a drink with him.”

“Ugh, no,” Martin agreed. He sighed. “Well, let’s do this. Douglas?”

“You and Arthur go on ahead,” Douglas said. “I’ll just nip back and get the juice for Carolyn.”

“Really? Thanks, Douglas!” Arthur said. Martin frowned at his first officer’s unperturbed face but followed Arthur into the plane.

The flight went as well as might have been expected from its inauspicious start. Mr Birling was _dreadful_. He loudly protested when Carolyn refused on the grounds of the new regulations to let him into the ‘deadpit’. He rang the service bell incessantly but wanted just Carolyn to serve him drinks, suffering Arthur only to take away his empty glasses. While the rugby final went off, Martin and Douglas reluctantly participated in a game of Charades with Arthur to pass the time and to bolster his flagging spirits. Mr Birling was red-faced and even louder on the return voyage and Arthur soon joined the pilots in the flight deck.

“Can I get you some coffee, Skip,” Arthur said in a low tone.

“What is it, Arthur?” Martin said.

“Oh, nothing, just I’m dead and never going to have a proper girlfriend again, according to Mr B,” Arthur said.

“What?” Martin exclaimed. “No, he couldn’t have said that. That’s just - just -” Arthur’s sigh was all the confirmation he needed, not that Martin should have doubted the type of insults Mr Birling was capable of leveling.

Douglas was annoyed. “He said that, did he? What twaddle. You’re good company for any young lady, and without going into salacious detail, there are _many_ ways to make one happy. I should know, with my extensive relationship history.”

Martin could feel the flush climbing his neck. To distract himself, he asked, “What did he say, exactly?”

“Oh, I can’t remember it all. Don’t want to, really. Lots of terrible jokes. He wanted to know if I was seeing anyone, and made some crack about how hard it could be to find a ghoul-friend.” Arthur pulled down the jump-seat and slumped. “People always make fun of me for not being that clever and it’s all right. I know I’m not, so I can laugh about it mostly. But I don’t think I like being the butt of jokes about zom… PDSers. Anyway, Mum called a Code Red and I came up here. You chaps don’t mind if I stay until we land, do you?”

Stay? In the tiny flight deck with him and Douglas? Martin scotched the protest that leapt to his tongue about regulations. “N-no. It… it’s fine with me. Douglas?” He drew in a deep breath and loosened his tight grip on the yoke.

Douglas lifted a brow at him and Martin looked away from his questioning gaze. “You’re welcome to stay,” Douglas agreed. “As the captain says.”

 

 

  **Fitton**

Carolyn watched as a swaying Mr Birling brushed off Arthur’s attempts to prop him up by the limo his wife had sent, her lips set in a tight smile. Douglas and Martin stood behind her, beyond making any polite farewells.

“No, no need for your help, don’t need that atrocious girly makeup on my clothes,” Mr Birling said. “Now, then.” He fumbled for his wallet and withdrew some bills. “The toadying and truckling were of an acceptable level, and of course Wales won. So - here.” He thrust the wad at Carolyn, who stepped forward.

“Your business was appreciated, Mr Birling.” She wrapped one hand around a sinewy wrist, smiling, and with the other folded Mr Birling’s fingers back over the bills. “It was.”

“Eh?” He peered at her. “What do you mean?”

She chuckled. They were standing close enough that she could smell his alcohol-scented breath, still clutching his hand as if it were the most fond of farewells.

“What’s this?” Mr Birling’s brows lifted, the beginning of a smirk curling his thin lips.

“Mr Birling. Lewis. You won’t mind if I call you Lewis? I do think, after today, you’re an acquaintance and not merely a client.” From the corner of her eye she saw Arthur edging away. Good boy, he was bright enough to know which way the wind blew. “An acquaintance who has been tolerated in the past due to the continued and valuable business he provided.”

Mr Birling straightened. “Eh? Yes, that’s right. I patronise your little company every year because you carry the whiskey I like.” He tried to pull his hand away but Carolyn only clutched tighter.

“Yes,” she cooed. “ _So_ kind of you to fly with us. I cannot even _begin_ to express my gratitude. A trip a year with a frankly horrible septuagenarian Welsh drunk who can find nothing better to do with his position and money than insult my crew. I appreciated it at the time. That, and the absurd tips which almost made up for the penance of having you aboard.”

She gently pushed his money into his chest and stepped away, wiping her hands on her skirt. “Keep your money, Lewis. I hope you enjoyed your last flight with MJN.”

Mr Birling’s mouth opened and closed, face growing even redder. “Well. Well! I don’t need to fly with your ridiculous company, crewed by a lot of Rotters and imbeciles. Since you seem more interested in losing my business -”

“That’s just it.” Carolyn beamed at him. “I don’t need you. I have other contracts that will _just_ about cover the loss of one measly trip every year to the Six Nations finals. I finally find myself in the position of having - what’s it called?”

“Sod-off money?” Douglas suggested.

“Yes, that sounds about right. So, Lewis, you see? I don’t need to put up with anyone who is an unmitigated bigot - particularly to my son - on top of your other less-than-sterling qualities. So.” She flashed him a lady-like V-sign. “Sod off.”

“I’ll tell my friends,” Mr Birling blustered.

“What friends?” she heard Martin mutter and Douglas shushed him.

Carolyn chuckled. “Do as you like. I won’t change my mind.”

Mr Birling stared at her, blinking reddened eyes. “You remind me of my wife.” He snorted, and to her horror, looked her up and down, an admiring glint in his eye. “Well done, madam. Well done.” He winked.

“Go. Go away fast and go away now,” Carolyn ordered. She turned smartly on her heel and marched off, listening as Mr Birling began to berate the limousine driver. The engine started, and he was gone. At last she allowed her shoulders to relax. Douglas ranged himself beside her as they went to the portacabin. She pretended not to hear his appreciative, “Well done indeed, Carolyn.”

Inside, they all collapsed into chairs and looked at each other. Predictably, it was Arthur that broke the silence first. “Mum?”

“Yes, dear heart?”

“That - was - _brilliant!_ ” Unable to contain himself, he launched himself at her for a hug.

“Yes, I know, don’t crush me, love,” she said but ran a fond hand over his hair as he released her.

“Just - wow! That was -”

“I know,” Martin agreed.

“And the way he looked, and what you said - just… brilliant, Mum, I love you!” Arthur couldn’t stop beaming. “And ugh! Does he fancy you now? You were horrible to him!”

“Some people like that kind of thing,” Douglas said and lifted his hands in surrender at the look Carolyn shot him.

Martin’s lips were twitching. “I thought I’d die when he winked.” He stifled a giggle. “Sorry, sorry!”

“Yes, laugh away,” Carolyn said. “We’re well shut of him. And the flight was already paid for, so no worries on that end.”

“That was the worst customer I’ve ever seen,” Douglas said. “But at least we have more than monetary recompense to soothe us.” He lifted his flight bag on the table and drew out a bottle.

“The Talisker? Douglas, tell me you didn’t steal it!” Martin said.

“Oh, good, you brought it in,” Carolyn said. She lifted it. “Still three-quarters of a bottle. Drink, Martin? On the house, just this once.”

Douglas shook his head at Martin’s open-mouthed expression. “Have one, Martin. You don’t get to drink hundred pound whiskey every day.”

“But how is there so much left?” Martin asked. “He was slobbering drunk! On, what? A glass and a bit? I’d better not, if it’s that strong.”

“I’ll drive you and Mum home, Skip,” Arthur said, fetching glasses.

“Oh, it’s easy to get drunk on Talisker, on top of whatever he must had consumed at the match,” Douglas said. “If you fortify the first few glasses with vodka minis and then swap out the good stuff for McHamish Tartan Terror. Isn’t that right, Carolyn?”

“Well, Douglas fortunately took my hint about the ‘juice’,” Carolyn said. She nodded regally at Douglas. “Your assistance in my little subterfuge is appreciated.”

“Dare I hope your gratitude will take a remunerative form?” he asked.

“Certainly. Equal to the value of the amount Martin here puts away,” Carolyn said grandly. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling as Douglas poured a protesting Martin a full glass. She accepted her own and lifted it. Martin lifted his brimming glass with care, as Douglas and Arthur did the same with empty ones. “Gentlemen. To MJN.”

“To Mum! And telling Mr Birling to sod off! Oh, and -”

“To MJN, long may it prosper,” Douglas cut across Arthur’s babble.

Martin sipped, brows rising. “This… it’s quite good, isn’t it? I usually don’t like whiskey.”

“Oh, how I wish I could taste it,” Douglas said. “Drink up for my sake, Martin.”

“You mean, for your bonus!” There was a ringtone, and Martin set down his glass, pulling out his phone. He frowned at it. “My mother. Sorry, I’ve got to take this.” Carolyn nodded and set Arthur to fetching pretzels while she retrieved a plate of cheese from the fridge. When she turned back, Martin was staring at his phone, freckles standing out like brown ink spots on his cheeks.

“Carolyn…” His voice broke. He swallowed and continued in a hoarse croak. “I, I need to book a day or two off next week.”

“Skip, what is it?” Arthur asked. Douglas’ face had lost all expression.

“I… oh, god. It - it’s my dad.” Martin raised agonised eyes. “They - they found my dad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the abrupt change of tone at the end, after a mostly-fluffy chapter!
> 
> Head-canon for Arthur - his gay-dar is even better than Douglas'.
> 
> Again, thanks for any kudos or comments! They are deeply appreciated.


	6. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin has very good reasons for being jumpy around Partially Deceased Syndrome Sufferers.

**December 20th, 2009**

The thing claws at Martin’s leg, heavy denim ripping. He yells and manages, despite the pain in his head, to flip to his belly, trying to crawl away. His pleading is half-garbled with panic, “No, no, nonono _no_ , stop, get off, don’t, don’t _hurt me -!_ ” But there’s nothing in the thing’s pale eyes, he is prey to it, nothing more and _how?_ His mind is staticky with panic and how is this possible? This, this _thing_ is all murderous intent and the sickening smell of mildewed clothing, it’s not _possible._ He flails but icy fingers dig into his bared flesh. Martin screams, thin and despairing as a trapped rabbit when nails and then teeth puncture his calf, tearing at the muscle.

Instinct kicks in and Martin’s whole body convulses, yanking his leg free. But the monster’s hands manage to retain a grip on the hem of his jeans. He rolls over, the torn fabric tightening like a tourniquet around his calf and he screams again at the white hot pain. Martin hammers at the thing’s head as it drags him closer, jolts of pain running up his arms at each blow but it scarcely seems to notice. He clasps his hands together and swings them like a club into its temple, loosening its grip but still, _still_ it has him. He is dragged inexorably closer and now it’s looming over him, black running from its mouth to splatter on Martin’s jacket. Martin curls up reflexively, hands shoving its shoulders back, bicycle-kicking, the blows landing on its upper body. One kick lands on its chin, driving its head back and pushing Martin free _at last oh god, run run RUN!_ He twists to all fours, gathers himself to leap up but his leg isn’t working right. He lands on hands and knees, palms and jeans tearing on rough tarmac, _oh god, it - he - IT_ has his foot again, not human, it’s not _human_.

Martin drags at the ground, nails breaking, breath sobbing in his throat. His shoe slips off and he’s free, up and limping. Too slow, run, run, _run_! His calf hurts like there’s molten metal searing into it, hot wetness soaking into his sock but he forces himself on. Martin runs with terrified glances over his shoulder to be sure it’s not following, that he’s leaving it behind even after the thing has disappeared into the night. He runs until his side is a stitch of pain and his shoeless foot drags, sock frayed open on rough tarmac. And when an automobile finally appears, slowing and stopping, he nearly weeps in relief.

 

 

At the hospital, the doctors don’t believe him when he tells them, teeth chattering and shocky, that a… a person had attacked him. _Sir, are you_ sure _about that?_ At his continued insistence, the police are called in to take a statement after his surgery. From the look in the constable’s eyes, he doesn’t believe him either. Not yet.

Martin can’t bring himself to tell the entire truth, that a thing shaped like a human but cold as the winter air had set teeth in him and torn and worried at him like a predator ripping flesh free from its victim, trying to cripple him. _All right, sir, say it was a person. Was there any reason for the attack? Did you know this individual?_

At this Martin begins to giggle, the bubble of hysteria rising until he gasps for breath. The constable eyes him and makes notes, asking the doctors _sotto voce_ if a blood sample was drawn when he came in - perhaps he needs to be kept longer for observation? They think Martin’s gone mad or, more likely, that he or his attacker was on drugs. Luckily his mother intervenes and he’s allowed to go home.

The constable and doctors believe him later when the special reports on telly began to air. Everyone begins to believe. It isn’t just an isolated incident in Wokingham. There are attacks in London, Manchester, even places as remote as Roarton. The dead are rising and attacking living people, killing them, eating _brains_. His mother is horrified at how close she came to losing her eldest son.

Martin doesn’t sleep. It gets to the point where he begins to nod off any time he sits, his body shutting down. He can’t bring himself to talk about that night with his mother. Instead he blames his sleeplessness on his healing leg or the paltry painkillers. But it’s not until after one of his more vocal nightmares, flailing awake on the sofa at a touch on his shoulder that Martin breaks down. The hand his mother holds to a reddening cheek and the sad look in her eyes fills him with shame and guilt.

He has to say it, even just once. “Mum. That night. The… when I was attacked.” He inhales and gets it out. “It... it looked like… it reminded me of… Dad. It was Dad.”

He’s immediately sorry he told her. Wendy goes white. But then disbelief fills her eyes, closing him out, pushing his confession away. “But Martin, it couldn’t have been. No. Your father would never, _never_ …” She pauses, gropes for words, a better explanation. “It… it all happened so fast! And… and you know your father is buried well across town. Why, if he’d really come back, he’d have had to go miles!” Martin only looks at her, imploring. She sighs. “Martin, I know you miss your father. You were always so close. Of course you’re confused about what happened that night. Being attacked, bitten by a, a… an undead person - it must have been a horrible experience. And... it was dark.”

Martin bows his head, defeated. He won’t force her to believe, not when she wants so badly not to - it will only hurt her more. “Yes. It was dark.” It’s an acknowledgement, but not acquiescence. Martin knows what happened, what his father had been doing. It was the same thing Martin had been doing, after all.

His father had been going home.

When the police contact them, Martin lets his mother handle it. _We’re sorry to report, Mrs Crieff, but it appears that the grave of your husband has been disturbed. We’ll need to investigate._ His mother nods, stiff. Martin closes his eyes. An investigation. It won’t be an exhumation, he knows. What had rested under Geoffrey Crieff’s headstone is there no more.

They can only wait for another phone call. All over the United Kingdom, the beings called variously _the undead, zombies, Rotters_ or _the_ _Risen_ are being dismembered by an hysterical public, the police, and the Army. At least, Martin thinks with some bitterness, if his dad ‘dies’ again, it won’t hurt any worse than knowing his own father or whatever his father has become tried to kill him. Or that his own mother still can’t handle the idea, firmly imagining that it was another Rotter that left her eldest son with a limp and recurring nightmares.

It had been dark, after all.

 

 

**March, 2013, Fitton**

Douglas played with his whiskey-less glass and unabashedly listened as Martin answered his mother’s call.

“Yes? Hi, Mum. No, I’m at work, we’ve just got back...” Douglas stared as the blood drained from Martin's face, leaving him a shade of pale normally only seen in the deceased or PDS sufferers. “What?” Martin licked white lips. “He… when?” Martin swallowed a few times, eyes wide. He attempted a happier tone. “That’s… that’s great. How long until… wow. Okay. Okay. What, what about Simon, can’t he - oh. No, I mean, yes, yes, of course. I’ll drive. Okay. I’ll… call you when I’ve arranged the day off. Yeah. Love you too, Mum. Bye.” He clicked off the phone, staring into space.

“Martin…” Douglas wasn’t sure what he wanted to ask. Carolyn turned from rummaging in the fridge at his odd tone, a plate of cheese in her hand.

“Carolyn,” Martin said, voice cracking. “I - I need to book a day or two off next week.”

“Skip, what is it?” Arthur asked, brows creasing in concern.

“I… oh, god. It - it’s my dad,” Martin said. “They - they found my dad.”

“Your dad?” Arthur asked. “But isn’t he dead… oh.”

“He was,” Martin said. “He was. Heart attack. But - but he’s… he’s… Now he’s...” Martin couldn’t seem to finish the sentence and Douglas felt his sympathy begin to congeal. “He’s been roaming around, hiding. They… they caught him about a year back. Sent him to Halperin and Weston. He was… he’s at the treatment centre in Norfolk.”

Carolyn shook her head and put the plate on the desk. “Well. No news for eight months is better than worse news. I’d know. My sympathies, Martin. Take all the time you need. I can probably scrounge up a pilot to replace you, as they long as they understand it’s temporary.”

“Because deadness is contagious, apparently,” Douglas said and shrugged at Carolyn’s glare. “What? You think I don’t know how hard it was to get even Martin for the position?”

“Mum, what do you mean? Why didn’t they tell Martin’s mum they found his dad?” Arthur’s eyes were wide and beseeching. “Didn’t they tell you? I was in the Centre for ages!”

Carolyn sighed. Douglas took pity and answered for her. “No. Halperin and Weston never inform the families. Not until you’ve been put on the Neurotriptyline and show positive medical indications that you will recover. And then there’s the therapy. That takes time as well, Arthur.”

“Mum? You didn’t know?” Arthur was aghast. “Mum?”

“No, Arthur,” she said, voice gentle. “But I was very glad when I found out. You were in a safe place.”

Douglas snorted. He couldn’t help himself. “Safe. Not everyone gets to leave, not unless they are fit to be re-integrated.”

“But. But what if they don’t leave?” Arthur looked heartbroken and Douglas felt a curl of shame for having brought it up. “Their families never know they’ve been found?” Douglas wouldn’t tell him that not being released isn’t the worst that could happen to a PDS sufferer who didn’t respond to treatment. There were rumours in the Centre, spoken in hushed voices. After all, PDSers aren’t like living _people_ , and the dead don’t have any rights. Not informing families gave Halperin and Weston Pharmaceuticals a lot of space for their work. Their _experiments._

“It’s… it’s sometimes better,” Martin said and they all looked at him. “And worse. Not knowing. That way, you can imagine they’re either just, just gone or, or otherwise…” He swallowed a few times and Douglas thought Martin just might vomit up the good Talisker he'd drunk. “They’re still out there.” _Like my dad was_ hangs unspoken in the air. Martin gulped once more. “But - but Carolyn’s right, Arthur. At least when you were in the Centre, people were - I mean, you were safe.”

Safe being a euphemism for not roaming the country as rabid and eating brains? Douglas stood up. “Ignorance is bliss, isn’t it?” He couldn’t stay here another minute. The look of sick apprehension on Martin’s face was more than he could bear. He’d thought Martin was coming ‘round - that he wouldn’t be like the well-intentioned people who pretended they were fine with Partially Deceased Syndrome sufferers but kept their prejudice mostly to themselves. Clearly he was wrong. PDSers were good enough to work with, it seemed, but not good enough to be family. “Excuse my leaving the celebration early. Congratulations on your father’s return, Martin.”

Carolyn only nodded over Arthur’s protest as Douglas collected his flight bag and hat. Martin said nothing, eyes on the glass in front of him. As he opened the door, Douglas heard Arthur’s bewildered comment.

“But, Skip! You don’t look very happy. Whyever not? Your dad is back!”

“It… it’s complicated, Arthur,” Martin replied.

 _I’ll bet it is_ , Douglas thought, and closed the door.

 

**April, Norfolk Treatment Centre**

The halfway house for families to meet their dear departed ones wasn’t bad, Martin thought. A bit spare, but clean and homey. Wendy, Caitlin and he now waited in a small room furnished with comfortable sofas and some pamphlets on ‘Living with PDS’.

Martin had been glad for Caitlin’s company on the trip to Norfolk - driving alone with his mother’s nervous expectations would have been too much. Caitlin had kept the conversation normal, bickering with Martin over the choice of music like any sibling would. If her cheerful pretense was strained at times, he’d never mention it. God knew that Caitlin had her own issues of guilt, though her part in the Wokingham militia had been confined to office work and not actually doing patrols. Martin couldn’t imagine how she’d face their father if she’d actually killed a PDSer. Besides, she was a welcome distraction from his own thoughts.

“I wonder if Dad will still have all his hair?” Caitlin mused.

“Caitlin!” their mother remonstrated.

“Well, really, Mum! It’s not like he wasn’t losing it when he died. It’s been three years, right?”

Martin forced a smile. “Yeah. Look at what’s happening to Simon’s hairline.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Wendy said, though she looked sad at the reminder of the passage of time.

“Remember that time after I’d got my first full time job that I got my hair permanently straightened?” Caitlin said with a reminiscent grin.

“Do I ever,” Martin said, relaxing at the memory. “Dad liked it, until you told him how much it cost. I thought he was going to blow a gasket.”

“It was almost two weeks’ wages,” Wendy protested. “You know your father - always careful with his money.”

“Worth it not to look like an overaged Hermione Granger, as I told him,” Caitlin said and Martin grinned. “I love you dearly, Mom, but I don’t love getting my curls from you. At least Martin can clip his short. S’not fair. Thank god I dodged the ginger bullet.”

“Oh, thanks, Caitlin,” Martin groused. “I’m quite happy with my hair, thanks very much.”

“That’s because you’re not losing it,” Caitlin pointed out.

Wendy ruffled Martin's hair fondly. “You're just the image of your father. Especially the eyes.” Martin looked down and fiddled with one of the informational brochures, not wanting to think about it.

“But not the height or hair,” Caitlin said. “Pfft. If he’d let us put him in a dress and fluff those curls, he’d be a perfect Little Orphan Annie.”

“Oh, come on!” That was going a bit far, Martin thought. “Didn’t you get Simon into one of your old frocks once?”

Wendy smiled at Caitlin’s laugh. “Geoff thought it was one of your friends come to play. Poor Simon.”

“Why isn’t Simon here anyway?” Caitlin wanted to know.

“Oh, he said that things were at a difficult state in the government at the moment, and he couldn’t get the day off,” Wendy said.

Caitlin rolled her eyes. “He’s a council member for Dorking, Mum. It’s hardly _government._ ”

“It’s local government!” Wendy protested. “It’s still important.”

“He ought to be here,” Martin said. “You’re always making excuses for him!” He bit his lip. He shouldn’t have snapped at her. It was just nerves, he told himself. He was all wound up about the imminent meeting. “Sorry, Mum.”

Wendy’s shoulders rose and fell with her inaudible sigh, though she looked as if she agreed with Martin about Simon's absence. “It’s all right, Martin.” She patted his hand.

There was a soft knock at the door. Martin was on his feet in an instant, his mother clutching his arm. An orderly opened the door. “All right in here?” she smiled. “Geoff’s terribly nervous about seeing you all again.”

“Me, too,” Caitlin stated with perfect truth for all of them. “We’re fine.” She took Wendy’s hand and squeezed it.

“Grand!” She gave them another bright smile and held the door open. Geoffrey Crieff walked in. His steps slowed and stopped, his eyes taking in his family. The orderly set a white plastic bag on the floor and closed the door on their reunion.

“Dad?” Caitlin’s voice was quiet. “Oh my god. It’s really you.”

Wendy gasped, hands flying up to cover her mouth. “Geoff,” she managed before her voice choked off. Tears ran down her face. Caitlin turned to hug her but Wendy was already moving towards her husband. “Geoff,” she said again and then she was hugging him, weeping.

“Wendy, girl. Wendy,” Geoff said, his face twisted up as if he wanted to cry. “I’m here. I’m here.”

“You were gone, you left me too soon!” Geoff soothed her as best he could, fingers brushing over the faded red waves of his wife's hair.

Caitlin’s eyes were bright with tears, her bottom lip clenched between teeth. “Dad.” He held out an arm and she went to him, touching his shoulder tentatively, before accepting his embrace and burying her head against his shoulder.

Martin stood watching, a fine tremble running through his body. His dad looked… normal. As if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t died. He looked nothing like when - Martin thrust the thought away so hard he sucked an audible inhale. “H- hi, Dad.” His father looked at him. Martin gulped. “You - you look better. Good, I mean.” Martin bit his tongue at the inadvertent slip.

Laughing and crying both, Wendy turned in her husband’s arms. “Come here, Martin. Come and greet your father properly. It’s been almost four years since you’ve last seen him.”

Martin felt his face freeze. How could she say that, she had to understand, she _knew_ … He unlocked his limbs and walked forward, holding out his hand.

Caitlin scowled at him, wiping at her eyes. “A handshake, Martin? Really? What’s wrong with you? It’s _Dad_!”

Geoff’s gaze dropped to Martin’s shaking hand. “Shush, Cait, it’s all right. A proper greeting between men. Look at you, both of you. I swear you’ve both grown, though I don’t see how, since you were all grown up before… Before.” He shook Martin’s hand, a brief up-and-down before releasing him. Martin breathed relief through slightly parted lips. His father continued, “I’m just happy you’re here, Martin, Cait. Supporting your mother. I’m so glad to see all of you again.”

Wendy began to tear up afresh and Geoff rested his head on her hair. Martin looked away, ashamed that for a brief instant his father’s face had worn a look of resigned unhappiness at Martin’s cool reception. But at least Geoff hadn’t betrayed anything beyond that. There was no clue that he remembered meeting Martin under very different circumstances while he was untreated. No, it was plain all Geoff could see was that Martin afraid of his undead parent. Instead of calling attention to it, he’d done his best to smooth the uncomfortable situation over, as stolid and kind as he’d ever been.

Martin could only be grateful.

Martin was all too happy to let his mother and Caitlin keep up the burden of conversation during the two hour drive to Wokingham. Geoff was full of comments on how little or how much things had changed and Caitlin was all too happy to answer Geoff’s questions about pieces of his missing years. The commentary grew more lively as they drew near to Wokingham.

Geoff smiled as familiar landmarks and buildings hove into view. “The place has hardly changed, has it?”

“That’s good, though, isn’t it?” Martin said. Yes, he should focus on the positive.

“That’s Rodney Beasley’s place!” Geoff said as they drove past an old brick place. “Huh. Still hasn’t replaced his TV antennae. I remember how he had to call me in because he tried a do-it-yourself repair on a wall socket. Nearly burned the place down, _and_ he had the nerve to argue about the bill!” He sniffed. “Old skinflint.”

Martin laughed in spite of himself. “Yeah. Some things never change. You should have told him to plug himself in and see how that went for him.” He focussed back on the road and stiffened. The turning for the shortest route back home was just ahead. He couldn’t take it, he just couldn’t. He kept his eyes forward and drove past the narrow road with its edgings of hedgerows.

Caitlin eyed him. “Martin! What are you doing? You missed the turn.”

“Uh, no, no I didn’t,” Martin stuttered. “I, I checked the route before we left and it said they were going to start road surfacing. Today.”

“I didn’t hear about any road work,” Caitlin said.

Oh, god - _why_ had he used that excuse? Caitlin was a traffic warden. “Maybe they didn’t tell you? Anyway, that’s what the website said!”

Wendy was puzzled. “I didn’t see any road work signs.”

Geoff sighed. “Typical road crew. Probably forgot to put the signs at this end of the road. Might not have even started yet. Some things really never change at all, do they? Never mind, Cait, we’re almost home. Martin knows what he’s doing.”

Martin swallowed and summoned a brotherly smirk. “Yeah, Cait, don’t argue with the driver.”

Caitlin made a scornful noise but let it go.

 

Dinner was a strange affair. Wendy had prepared a lasagna that she knew her husband liked and only needed to be reheated after their long trip. It was Martin who had to explain as she set out four place settings.

“Mum. It smells great and I can’t wait to have some but Dad… Dad’s not going to be able to eat any of it. Or drink anything.”

Geoff coughed and ran a hand over his head. “That’s right, Wendy. I’ll only lose it again. And it’d mess up my makeup besides!” Martin dropped his eyes. He didn’t want to think about the makeup rubbing off, revealing what was underneath. His neck was aching from the tension that had risen and waned all day. Geoff smiled at his wife. “Looks wonderful, though. I appreciate the thought.”

“Oh.” Wendy looked crestfallen before laughing. “Silly me. I’d forgotten. Martin did tell me. But you can still sit with us and talk. There’s so much to catch up on!”

Geoff smiled fondly at her. “Yes, pet. Couldn’t keep me from the table for the world.”

They all seated themselves and Martin managed to shove his nerves away while he ate. Over dinner he interjected a few comments, inwardly thankful no one had noticed his reticence. Or so he thought. It wasn’t until he’d spooned up the last of his ice cream that his father cleared his throat, turning worried grey eyes upon Martin. “So, Martin. You seem to know a lot about my, uh, syndrome. Did you read up on it when you heard the news about your old dad? You always were a one for studying, head stuck in those flying textbooks all the time.” His voice was cautious though the words were affectionate.

Caitlin answered for Martin. “Oh, no, Martin knows all about Partially Deceased. He works with two of them at his charter company.”

“Charter company?” Geoff’s brows rose.

Wendy smiled in pleasure. “Oh, yes, that’s one of the best pieces of news for you! Martin finally passed his exams, not long after - well, you know. He’s a pilot now.”

“An actual captain,” Caitlin added with unusual sisterly generosity which she then spoiled. “You ought to _see_ his hat! Bolivian generals have nothing on him!"

Geoff’s expression was both wondering and impressed. “A captain? You’re not just a pilot, but a captain, too? Martin, that’s great!” His smile was full of genuine gladness for his son’s achievement. “I’m so proud of you.”

Martin’s throat felt tight and funny. His dad… his dad was proud. Proud of him. All those times that he and his father had argued over his studies, how Martin wanted to continue despite repeatedly failing his CPL, and then his father had died four months before he got his first real job. He'd never dreamed he'd hear these words, his father's praise. This… this should be a moment of triumph, a time to smile and accept his father’s congratulations, maybe even jokingly gloat a little over his sudden success.

Martin’s lips stretched into a smile. “Yeah. Thanks. Isn’t it great?” It almost sounded natural, but the words came out strained from his aching throat. His mother reached over and put her hand over Geoff’s where it rested on the table as if consoling him and Martin abruptly knew he couldn’t do this anymore, not tonight. He’d hit his limit. He had to get out or, or...

“Actually, about that, Mum, Dad. I do have to go in tomorrow, we’ve, we've a trip to Paris," he lied. "N-nothing major, it’s not overnight, but you know how it is, a pilot’s supposed to get at least eight hours sleep between duty periods, well, maybe you didn’t know that.” He knew he was babbling but it didn’t stop him pushing his chair back and standing up. “Sorry to eat and run, or is it eat and fly? Anyway. Sorry, Mum. I’ll help with dishes next time.”

“Don’t worry about it, love,” his mother said. His father nodded, a pinched line between his brows. Caitlin’s face clearly stated she thought he was acting weird. Martin hesitated. Should he kiss his mother goodbye? If he did, she’d expect him to at least hug his father. His father forced a chuckle.

“Don’t just dance about on the carpet, Martin. You’ve got to go. Have a safe trip.”

“Uh. Thanks. I will. It… it’s good to see you again, Dad,” Martin said, knowing his words were inadequate but unable to say more. He went to the front hall to gather his jacket, hearing the low undertone of his father’s voice.

“...been that jumpy? And he’s been limping whenever he thinks I’m not watching. What happened, Wendy?”

Caitlin’s voice answered. “He, uh. He was attacked, back when it started, Dad. Had to go to the hospital -”

“Not now, Caitlin,” Wendy said. “I’ll tell you about it later, Geoff. Just be patient with him.”

Caitlin snorted. “He works with PDS sufferers, he ought to be used to them by now! He’s being ridiculous. This is Dad, after all.”

“Caitlin Theresa Crieff, not another word about your brother,” his father said. “He’ll come ‘round in his own time. Now, who’s up for a DVD? I keep missing all the pop culture references, makes me feel old.”

His mother laughed. “Never that, dear. I don’t understand what young people are saying, either. Caitlin, which movie -”

A chair scraped as someone began to get up from the table.

Martin fled.

Halfway to his little flat, the pressure that had built up from the day’s events finally crested and washed over him. Martin pulled to the side of the road. Oh. Oh, _god_. A dry sound tore from his throat and he pressed his mouth into the crook of his elbow, bowing forward until the steering wheel pressed into his forehead. Oh, god, his dad was back. The second sob and all the following were mostly stifled by his jacket. He cried, miserable, until he couldn’t catch his breath, uncaring if anyone looked into his van and saw him. _Dad._

He loved his dad, but his dad had died. His dad had tried to kill him. And now he’d returned with no memory of that night.

And Martin was afraid of him. Who could he tell? Not his father, never. He wouldn't do that, not with Geoff home and everyone else so happy about it.

Oh, god. What was he going to do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I once swore I'd never write a fic with a crying Martin. Look where that got me. Poor guy. He's had a rough, rough day.


	7. Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Douglas is in a foul mood, Arthur explains his point of view, and Geoff Crieff builds an aeroplane model with Martin.

**December 20th, 2009**

His growls are low and guttural as he grapples with the girl, pulling her against him and lifting her feet clear of the ground. Thin arms beat against him until he wraps one of his own around her smaller frame. He ignores the kicking legs and shrill screams, digging dirty nails into her winter coat until the nylon cloth is punctured with small popping noises. His free hand gropes at her neck, comes to rest on a rounded cheekbone. His muscles tighten. The head is wrenched sideways and the screaming stops. Satisfied, he lets the body drop. The brown eyes stare, doll-like, as rain patters on the upturned face and runs down like tears. He grunts and bends down, groping for a rock.

 

 

**March, 2013, Manchester**

Douglas shivered back to awareness as the airport med tech was putting the injector away. The tech turned and eyed him, snapping his gum. “All right then?”

Douglas rubbed a hand over the injection point on the back of his neck and looked away from the man’s stare. Arthur was still in his usual half-dazed state from his own injection, quiet and sleepy eyed. Lucky Arthur. God, some days Douglas _longed_ for the oblivion of alcohol. “Just dandy,” he replied and buttoned up his collar.

 

 

“Skip? I’ve got your coffee for you.” Arthur hovered expectantly in the door of the flight deck, Skip’s mug in hand. Martin looked up at him from the instrument panel, blinking.

“What? Oh, thanks, Arthur. You have control, First Officer.”

“I have control,” Douglas replied without looking at Martin. Arthur handed Martin his mug and looked between them, worried. The flight out had been too quiet, with Skip pale and lost in his own thoughts and Douglas not even making any jokes. Well, one thing Arthur knew he was good for was talking!

“So, Skip,” he began. “How did it go, the other day? With your dad?”

Martin took a too-large gulp of his coffee and gasped. “Fine. Fine! It went really well. Fine. He's… he looks good.”

“Fine, in fact?” Douglas drawled.

“Really? That’s great!” Arthur said. “So, I guess he’s… fine? I mean, you look kind of worried or something.”

“I’m not!” Martin said.

“He’s _fine,_ ” Douglas supplied. Martin scowled at him.

“Oh. Just... Are you coming down with a cold? Would you like tea with lemon instead?” Arthur asked.

“No, really, I’m -” Martin scotched his remark and changed tack. “I’m tired, is all. Didn’t sleep well last night.”

“If you’re not sleeping, you shouldn’t be flying,” Douglas said pointedly. “Regulations state -”

“I know! Would you like me to quote them to you word for word, Mr Air England?” Martin sniffed at Douglas' groan. “Thought not. I had sufficient sleep to fly, thank you very much.”

“Oh, that's good, Skip!” Arthur said. “I sleep like the dead myself. Oh, that’s a bit funny, isn’t it? Because -”

“Yes, we get it, Arthur,” Douglas said.

“But can’t you, ooh, I dunno - drink hot milk or something?”

Martin shook his head. “Won’t help. I keep waking up.”

“But why -” Arthur said before Douglas interrupted, impatience in his tone.

“He doubtless means he has nightmares.”

“Douglas!” Martin snapped. He turned to Arthur. “Well, yes, since Douglas just _had_ to bring it up, I… I do get bad dreams.”

“Oh.” Arthur considered. “I get those too! Are they the naked-in-school kind? Or… or falling? I hate those. Or are they the ones about the monster in the closet, and you have to be really careful the door is shut before you go to… bed?” The wince on Martin’s face told Arthur he’d hit a nerve. “You dream about monsters, Skip?”

“Um. Not really. I, uh. It’s usually about… about the Pale Wars.” Martin confessed. “S - sorry. I know you didn’t… weren’t… Anyway.” From the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Douglas’ hands clench on the yoke.

Oh. “Yeah. Wow. Did you… uh. You know?”

Martin shook his head and Arthur was immediately relieved. “No, I never… never killed anyone.” Martin’s laugh was brief and humourless. “But… I did have some bad experiences during the... that time.”

“But... “ Arthur understood. “Then… it’s the other way round? With… with PDSers - rabids, I mean - chasing you?” Martin’s grimace told Arthur he was right for once and he wished he weren’t. He didn’t want to think of his kind hurting Skip. “Wow, Skip,” he said. “That sounds like a really scary dream.”

Martin blew a shaky breath. “It’s… it’s not so bad. It’s not like I’m afraid of you or Douglas anymore.” He froze, a look of consternation crossing his face.

“Not anymore?” Arthur felt a pang of hurt. “But… that means you were used to be.” Now a lot of Skip's behaviour made sense to Arthur, the way he stuttered or stiffened up, or how he looked away when Arthur’s contacts fell out. Martin’s gaze dropped to his coffee mug. “It’s okay, Skip. Because some of us - well, not me! But some PDSers did hurt people.”

Douglas twitched at his words but Arthur concentrated on Martin. “And I think I’d be scared too, thinking that maybe a PDSer that I knew had killed people.”

Martin’s eyes were wide, hands clutching the mug hard. “ _Arthur_.” Douglas’ voice was awful. “You’re really not helping, you know.”

“But Skip needs to know -” Arthur tried to say.

“Do you remember that speech your mother gave you about being too helpful?”

“Yes, but I only -”

“Must I call a Code Red?” Douglas said.

“No!” Arthur said. “Anyway, you _can’t,_ only Mum can call Code Reds and she’s not here! I’m just trying to help Skip understand something, and I’m going to do it!” He restrained himself from sticking out his tongue, but only because he could tell that Douglas was truly upset.

“Okay,” Martin said, drawing the word out. “Then - then you should keep trying.”

“Thanks, Skip.” Arthur blew a breath and tried to gather his thoughts again. “So, yeah. I can see how you’d be scared of us. I mean, I would be, too. I _should_ be, for just the same reason, it doesn’t even matter if I’m a PDSer! But I’m not, Skip. Do you know why?”

Martin shook his head, mute.

“Because it wasn’t _us_ , you see? Before they got treated, PDSers didn’t know what they were doing! You don’t really think me or Douglas wanted to hurt anyone when we were still alive, do you?”

Martin’s second head shake was stronger. “No. I - I don’t think that.” Arthur was relieved.

“‘Course not! So, Skip, _please_ don’t be afraid anymore. It’s hard for PDSers, and I don’t want you to be scared of us.” Arthur blinked at Martin, willing him to believe. “It’s like they tell us in the Centre. ‘What we did in our untreated state isn’t our fault.’ You see?”

“It’s not as easy as all that, Arthur,” Douglas said, voice heavy. Arthur drooped.

“No, it’s not,” Martin agreed in a quiet voice. “But - you’re right, Arthur. I - I’ll try to remember that. When I… when I start to get nervous.”

“Okay,” Arthur said. He gave Martin a smile. “As long as you try, that’d be brilliant.”

“After all, Martin,” Douglas said in a lighter tone, “What’s so scary about Arthur? I mean, use your head. It’s _Arthur._ ”

“Douglas!” Martin said but his lips twitched.

“Yeah!” Arthur agreed. “I never even won any Halloween costume contests.” He took the empty mug from Martin. “Well, except that once, when me and a mate were a pantomime horse with a little jockey doll on top.”

Martin choked a laugh as Douglas immediately asked, “No, let me guess. You were the back end of the horse?”

“How did you _know_?” Wow, Douglas was clever sometimes, Arthur thought. And both of them were talking again! He grinned.

 

 

**Fitton**

Douglas poked at his laptop computer, listlessly browsing random links in Wikipedia as Mozart’s Don Giovanni played at a soft volume. He didn’t have much interest in news sites these days, being that many of the articles concerned Partially Deceased issues. It was, on the whole, depressing. He sighed and stretched, shoulder joints popping.

Turning his head, his eye fell upon the white plastic sign that partially blocked the light coming through the single window of his living area. He grimaced. Really, this was going too far. The local council had decreed that all residences that housed PDS sufferers had to have a sign to identify the occupants. The landlord, shrugging, had given it to him yesterday.

Douglas loathed the thing, the bright green letters proclaiming his status to the world. All he wanted to do was go about his daily life without fuss or notice. Now it would be impossible. It was yet another thing being taken from him without his consent. If he weren’t outright shunned as some sort of contagious leper, then at the very least he’d have to look forward to some unpleasantness. They might as well have painted a target in his back. Douglas thought of Stars of David daubed on the doors and windows of Jews in Nazi Germany, of crosses burning on lawns in America, and set his jaw. He turned back to the keyboard and tapped in a search: ‘ _Legal Aid Partially Deceased Syndrome Sufferers_ ’. The results weren’t promising - they seemed geared more to helping the living than the dead. Bugger.

A _plink!_ noise caught his attention and he turned again to the window in puzzlement. A bird? A sharper crack on the glass had him on his feet and looking out the window. Below, he saw two children, a boy and girl, their football abandoned in the street. The boy’s arm was drawn back for another throw but he dropped the stone when he saw the curtains move. He pointed and said something to the girl - his sister? She looked up and saw Douglas, his uncovered face and contact-less eyes. Her eyes widened, mouth falling open before she turned and ran. The boy shouted something and made a rude gesture up at Douglas before grabbing the ball to follow her.

Douglas jerked the curtain closed. This was what it came to - life as the neighbourhood bogeyman. Perfect. He’d been wonderful with children, in another lifetime. Wearily he returned to his desk chair and considered just packing it in and going to bed. Never mind that it was only five o’clock. _No_ , he decided. _Not a good idea, Richardson._ Ever since he’d returned and understood what it meant to be one of ‘the Risen’, sleep was a constant lure for him, a relief from awareness of his depressing condition. It tugged at him, a trap that he couldn’t abandon himself to, if only because it would be doubly hard to get up again. There were mornings he both cursed and blessed MJN and the necessity of facing the world. It was so much easier to find oblivion in sleep, all other paths being barred. Or… were they?

A niggle of curiosity had him opening a new tab. ‘ _How - PDS sufferer - intoxication_ ’. His finger hovered over the Enter key. With a disgusted noise, he shook his head and closed the laptop. Better to sleep, perchance not to dream, if he was lucky. He picked up his mobile, checked that it was off silent-mode and went to bed.

 

 

**April, 2013, Wokingham**

Martin thought Arthur would have been chuffed that his words about PDSers still being the people they had been in life were slowly working through Martin’s brain. That, and the knowledge that he _had_ to do better. His mother wouldn’t understand if he didn’t visit, and his father might think that there was some uglier reason for his avoidance. His dad had been a good man, Martin told himself over and over. He still was a good man. There was no reason for Martin to be afraid. After all, Martin had been able to work for months with Arthur and Douglas. Acclimatisation, that’s all it took. Focus on the nice memories of his dad. He could do it. He _had_ to do it.

With this self-resolve in place, he’d made his mother very happy when he called on his day off to ask if he could come over for dinner. His father had greeted him at the door with the broad smile Martin remembered from when he was a child. Conversation had gone smoothly enough over dinner, with his dad asking questions about his new job. And if Martin had babbled a little too much about G-ERTI’s specs and the minutiae of flying such an old jet, well, it was better than letting his mind wander into dangerous areas.

They’d finished the evening with a DVD of _Sherlock Holmes_. Geoff had declared that he was serious about catching up and was working his way through the top television shows and movies of the past three years. Martin joked that watching a movie about a Victorian detective was hardly going to get him current on pop culture, but his mother only hushed him with a smile.

It had been… fine, as was the next visit. Geoff had looked Martin over and declared that he was getting too weedy from his cushy job. He’d then set him to work, getting pots of dirt ready for his mother’s spring flowers.

It was as if time had reversed and Martin was a sulky teen again with his dad loading him up with chores to get him out of the house. Martin stared at his father, his mouth open. “But it’s freezing outside,” he said feebly. “And raining.”

“So? The garden shed is still standing,” Geoff said. “You can work in there. It’ll be a great help for your mother. You know how proud she is of her gardens.”

Martin snorted but gave in. “What will you be doing?”

“Oh, exercising my parental prerogative by supervising,” Geoff said, eyes creasing with humour. “But I thought I might take a look under the hood of the old van. Thought that she was a bit slow to turn over the last time you left. Looks like she’s been through the wars, hasn’t she?”

Martin stiffened and his dad’s smile disappeared, his eyes clouding over. _No, do better, you have to do better, it was an innocent comment,_ Martin told himself sternly. He shrugged. “Yeah, a bit. But - but she’s a faithful old girl. I never got the chance to thank you for leaving the van to me, Dad. I - I appreciate it.”

His dad’s chuckle was pleased. “Well, I’m glad to hear it, Martin.”

“I think there’s something wrong with the battery,” Martin offered. “If you could look at that?”

“Probably corrosion. I’ll ask if your mother can spare some baking soda and an old toothbrush,” Geoff said and clapped his hands. “Now, off to the workhouse with you, young man. I believe there are still gardening gloves in the shed.”

“Not Mom’s pink ones,” Martin groaned and felt all the better for making his father laugh.

Each visit became easier than the last as Martin’s nerves abated under the long-forgotten familiarity of his and his father’s relationship. Today they were working on a model aeroplane kit that Martin had bought but never got ‘round to putting together. The scent of paint and glue hung heavy in the kitchen. Wendy breezed in, nose wrinkling. “I’ll turn on the window fan, shall I? You’ll get a headache, Martin!” She switched it on and placed a glass of orange juice in front of Martin. “Here. I’m just going to pop out to meet with my coffee group now, but remember there’s the makings for ham sandwiches in the fridge if you get hungry, love.”

Martin looked up as she pressed a kiss to his cheek and then to her husband’s. She touched Geoff’s shoulder and he smiled up at her, lifting a hand to squeeze hers in reassurance. Wendy’s gaze flitted to Martin for a moment, an odd expression of uncertainty and sadness crossing her face before she smiled brightly. “Have a nice time, boys!”

After she’d left, Martin looked at his father. “Coffee group?”

His father shrugged and picked up a piece of sandpaper, smoothing a rough edge of plastic with careful strokes. “What they call it, since some of those that go don’t want word getting around. It’s a support group for women with PDS suffering relations. It’s not been all wine and roses with your mother since I came back, Martin, even if she puts a brave face on it.” He grimaced. “One day I was there and the next...“ He expelled a heavy breath. “You plan ahead, pay your life insurance and make your will but no one ever expects it to happen, right? She’s angry with me, for one thing.”

“Oh.” Martin blinked at his father. She’d been doing a good job keeping that to herself. He'd only seen her happiness that her husband had returned. "I… I had no idea.”

“That’s your mother all over, isn’t it? ‘The children mustn't find out!’ and all that.”

“Should I…?”

Geoff shook his head. “Let her bring it up in her own time, if she ever does.”

“All right.” Martin reached for a bottle of paint and shook it.

“Even so, I wanted to thank you for staying with her after I’d gone. It meant the world to her, having you around. It means a lot to me,” Geoff said. “It… can’t have been easy.”

His father had the gift of understatement. Martin shoved away the swell of memories of years of loss and fear. “I wanted to,” he said. “Anyway… anyway, it was nice not having to cook for myself all the time.”

His father chuckled. “There’s that.” They worked in companionable silence a few minutes before his father ventured, “What about you? Did you ever go to help groups yourself? Seems like a useful thing.”

Martin shook his head. “Probably should have, but…” No. He could have done it in secret, possibly, but he’d been reluctant. If his mother had found out - No. He hadn’t wanted to rake up the ugly reasons he needed therapy, some of them having to do with his mother’s disbelief about his attack. He swallowed, dipped his brush too deep into the paint and had to scrape the excess off on the lip of the bottle. “Anyway, I’m kind of working through things on my own, aren’t I?”

“Ah. Exposure. Yes, you do work with those fellows. Douglas and Arthur, was it?” Geoff asked.

Martin smiled. “Yeah. They’re good guys. At least, when Douglas isn’t ragging me about my inexperience or trying to win the cheese tray off me. Arthur wants to play Charades all the time and juggles apples because it’s relaxing.”

Geoff laughed. “Good lord.”

“You’ve no idea,” Martin said. “It’s like working in a circus sometimes.”

“Heh. And because of them, that’s how you know so much about their - our syndrome, then?” Geoff peered at him.

“Mm-hm.” Martin finished tracing a thin line of black around the model plane’s cargo door. “Partly. I did read up a lot after I’d got the job. Crash course in the Domiciled Care Initiative and Neurotriptyline and… everything, really.”

“So you know why we have to take our doses every day?” Geoff asked.

Martin straightened up, brush held mid-air. “S-sure. It… it -” He fell back on quoting Halperin and Weston’s website. “‘Neurotriptyline promotes the neurogenesis of fresh glial cells in your head, making new connections, and re-activating different parts of the once dormant brain.’ And it does… well, other stuff.”

“Yes, well. I just like to think of it as the old brain rebooting itself,” Geoff said wryly.

Martin forced a chuckle. “Probably does a better job rebooting than you ever did with our PC, Dad.”

“I resent that,” Geoff said. “Wasn’t my fault the memory got wiped that one time.”

“Simon was furious,” Martin said. “All his games were lost.”

“I re-installed them!”

“No, you found the discs and got _me_ to do it before he could find out,” Martin said. “He figured it out anyway, like I _warned_ you, since all his saved games were gone. I rest my case.” His father grinned and Martin was relieved they were moving away from the topic of PDSers. No such luck.

“That’s the funny thing, Martin. That time… when I came back, it was like brain fog. More than that - it was like that crashed computer. I didn’t know anything, not about myself, where I was, anything.”

The brush in Martin’s hand trembled and he blindly dunked the brush in a glass of liquid, swishing it about vigorously. “But you’re better, now, right? You remember who you are. You’re fine again. I - I’m just glad you’re back. I mean, no one else wants to build models with me.” His father looked at the glass, a crease between his brows and Martin realised his mistake. Black smears showed dark against the orange juice - he’d used the wrong glass. “Oh.”

Geoff only took the brush from him and wiped it on a tissue before rinsing it in thinner. “One good thing - I’m not going to get dizzy from the fumes of model glue anymore. But this is a bit sharp. Fan's not helping much. Crack the window open, would you?”

Martin moved to obey. When he turned back, he found his father was scrutinising him. He returned to the table, walking as naturally as he could manage, but his leg betrayed him, his calf spasming. Clenching his jaw, he made a play of pulling out his chair, hoping his father wouldn’t comment.

“How did you get that limp, son?”

“What limp?” Martin attempted ignorance. Geoff gave him a look.

“The one that comes and goes depending on whether people are watching. Don’t play stupid, Martin.”

Oh god. He couldn’t tell his dad. It would destroy him. Martin gripped the back of his chair. “Oh, it’s nothing, Dad. I was sitting a bit too long.” Geoff's brows came together at this excuse and Martin gave up his feeble attempt at subterfuge. “I - I thought you knew? I overheard Caitlin telling you. There - there was an attack.”

“Yes, she did mention that. And your mother told me more.” His dad’s expression was compassionate. “But I’d rather hear about it from you, Martin.”

Martin loosened his grip on the chair, attempting casual. “It was pretty bad, my leg. Had to get surgery. And - and there are things I’d rather not remember. Or talk about right now, Dad.” _Please. Please don’t make me talk about it._

Geoff heaved a sigh. He began to nudge the chaos of brushes and tubes on the newspaper into some kind of order. “Your workmates ever tell you what it’s like, getting the daily dose? Random memories pop up from before. That’s the drug working, they say. Fixing connections.” His smile was brief and pained. “Rebooting. And sometimes, the memories… Well, you can imagine. They’re not pleasant, Martin.”

Martin’s voice was stuck somewhere in his throat. He was frozen, his eyes fixed on the side of his dad’s downcast face.

“I had to tell your mother,” Geoff said after a stretch of silence.

Martin unlocked his tongue. “Tell her what?” he said, voice hoarse.

His father didn’t seem to hear the question. He pushed a plastic piece back and forth with a finger. “We were out about a week back, picking up groceries. Left in the afternoon and you know how your mother shops, has to stop and look at every single blessed thing. So it was bit late when we were driving back, some time in the evening. We passed a spot - didn’t look like much, just a bit of road with lots of hedgerows all overgrown. And… and it was dark out.”

“What happened?” Martin whispered.

“I… oh, god. I remembered. I _remembered_.” Geoff’s voice broke.

“Dad…” Martin didn’t even know what he wanted to say. “Dad,” he repeated, helpless. “You don’t have to -”

Geoff lifted his head at last and Martin swallowed his words at his father's agonised expression. “Don’t have to _say_ it? Say that - that I’m the one that did it, that sent you to hospital? It was _you_ out there that night, and I didn’t know it, didn't remember! I _attacked_ you. And… and… My own _boy_ , and I tried to kill you.” His face twisted as if he were crying, though no tears fell. No tears would ever fall.

Oh, god. Martin never wanted to see that look on his father’s face again, it was like a knife twisting in his heart. His limbs were trembling again but he clutched the chair like a lifeline and did his best. “Dad… I - I don’t b-blame you. ‘What you did in y-your untreated state…’ It wasn’t your fault, Dad. It - it wasn’t _you._ ”

His father shook his head at Martin’s shaky reassurance. “No. There’s no excuse. And I wanted to say - Martin. I understand now. And… if you didn’t come ‘round again, I’d understand that too. I’m sorry.” His grey eyes were disconsolate. “I’m so sorry, Martin.”

“It’s okay, Dad,” Martin said.

“It’s not.” Geoff took a breath. “I see how you act around me, and I love you for trying, Martin. But how can you even bear to be near me?”

“No.” Martin shook his head hard. “O - okay. Okay, I’m not all right. But I’m getting better, really, I am. Just - just…” He had to fix this. He’d never turn his back on his own father. “Can you - would you stand up?”

His father pushed back his chair and rose slowly. “Martin, you don’t have to -”

“Ssh. Just - stand still a minute? Please?” Martin drew a quivering breath. His dad would be cool to the touch, he knew that, he was ready for that.

Geoff stood perfectly still as Martin put his arms around him in a loose embrace. It - it was all right. God, what could he say? _Please take care of yourself, take your doses, please._ But no, that wasn’t right. He rested his face against his father’s shirt and inhaled. The faint aroma of aftershave tickled his nose and he shut prickling eyes. Geoff had always worn Brut, even though Caitlin had chafed him about it being old-fashioned. The scent was laden with Martin’s memories of happier times and the right words finally came to him.

“It’s okay, Dad, it’ll be okay, I swear. You’re… you’re my _dad,_ and I love you. I’ll always love you, no matter what.” His arms tightened, fingers clutching at fabric. His father’s arms came up to rest on his back.

“I’ll make it up to you somehow,” Geoff said, voice rough.

“You don’t have to. I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you.”

“Can’t get rid of me that easy,” Geoff said and they both laughed, Martin’s coming out wet.

Martin drew away and scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “God. I - I’m sorry I’ve been so… well, you know. I wish you’d never had to deal with… with any of this.”

Geoff sighed. “Better out than in. It wasn’t fair to let you handle this on your own. You’ve shouldered this alone for too long, Martin. After my little flashback in the car, I had to tell Wendy. She - well, it’s just another thing to talk over with her group. Hard enough for her having me coming back, much less this news. It’s just one more thing to get over. But she’s a trooper, your mother.”

“I know,” Martin said, thinking of that terrible first year - Geoff’s premature death, the Rising, her son attacked, the empty grave. He’d been so full of suppressed resentment for so long because of her willful blindness about his attack. But now he found that it was possible to let it go. “It was rough.”

“She’s sorry she didn’t believe you, she really is. Well. As you say - rough times.” Geoff met Martin’s eyes, forehead wrinkled with uncertainty. “You sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine,” Martin said and meant it. “Good.”

“Not fine," Geoff said with a father’s insight. “But better, yeah?”

“Better,” Martin agreed. They both turned as the back door banged open. Caitlin entered with carrier bags and slung them on the counter.

“Hi, Dad, Martin!” She wrinkled her nose at the mess on the table. “God, couldn’t you have done that upstairs? It smells.”

“Caitlin, love! You’re early,” Geoff said. “Your mother’s not back yet.”

Caitlin shrugged and began unloading food. “Figured I may as well come now, since I didn’t need to swing by Dorking to pick up Simon. He called - little Janey has stomachache. He’s not going to make it.” She rolled her eyes.

“Ah. Too bad,” Geoff said. Martin clenched his teeth together to keep from saying anything about Simon’s defection. He'd guessed from how his mother avoided the topic that Simon hadn't been by even once since his father had come home.

“Dad, you’re such a stoic,” Caitlin teased. “We'll have fun without him and his boring council talk. Just think! You get to watch me and Martin duel over the last of the pudding.”

“Me, stoic?” Geoff countered. “I’ll have you know I’m a modern man! A great soppy romantic. Don’t you remember me crying at the end of The Notebook?”

“That was you? I thought it was Martin snivelling and snotting all over,” Caitlin said.

“Ah, right.” Geoff nodded. “Now I recall - it _was_ Martin.”

“Hey!” Martin protested but exchanged a smile with his dad before they both began to clear the table in tandem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tiny piece of Douglas back-story as well as the difficulty of his new life. Arthur features as today's wise fool, and Martin makes baby steps in dealing with his past. Geoff Crieff is a lovely man.


	8. With a Little Help from my Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Douglas hits his limit. Arthur literally wins at The Game of Life. Carolyn signs MJN up for a course at Ipswich involving quiches and being shouted at by an ex-RAF man. Martin finds there's a border he'd rather not cross with PDSers, even if Douglas thinks it's for his own good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for mild scene of a 'danger night'. See notes below for more information.

**April, 2013, Port-au-Prince**

“Nearly ten hours of flying may not be physically exhausting, but damned if the jetlag doesn’t induce brain-death, sleep notwithstanding,” Douglas grumbled. Rolled eyes and a _ha, ha, very funny_ was Martin’s only response to the morbid jest. “Heigh ho, homeward we go.” He flicked on the intercom. “Good morning, this is your First Officer speaking. On behalf of Zed-Air and the warm-blooded Captain Crieff, we hope that our Arthur is all snugged into his seat and ready to fly into the great undiscovered country in the sky.” A cheer was his reply and he switched off the intercom with snap. He was in a foul mood, having had to drag himself from his hotel bed after his third alarm had gone off. Not that it mattered if he missed breakfast with Martin and Arthur. He derived no sustenance from the meal anyway, neither nutritionally or intellectually.

“I don’t know,” Martin said. “I find it funnier that we were chartered to fly PDSers to Haiti, home of the ...well it’s not a myth anymore, is it? The legend of zombies.”

“At least Haiti welcomes them with open arms,” Douglas said.

Martin wrinkled his nose. “True. It’s not that I miss it, but I wonder if I’ll ever get to fly to China. I mean, America’s fanatical about their screening and Russia won’t allow any PDSers to immigrate, but China? We can’t even land there.”

“Sod the so-called Land of the Free,” Douglas said with vehemence. “You got to stay in a hotel. Arthur and I weren’t allowed beyond quarantine and had to kip on some cots.” The air of suspicion and open prejudice had made Douglas very glad to return home, even if his flat was far from palatial.

“It wasn’t a _nice_ hotel,” Martin said. “The mattress felt like it was full of old socks. Smelled like it, too.” But he had the grace to look shamefaced. “I hear they’re loosening up on the regs now, though.”

“Forgive my lack of sympathy,” Douglas said. “But being a PDSer is rubbish. You don’t have to live it. I do, if living is the right phrase.”

Martin surprised him by not shrinking under his bitter words but looked at him with a crease between his brows. “No, I don’t - I mean, I’m not… not like you. But if working with you and Arthur and having a dad with the syndrome isn’t living with it, what is?”

“I’ll present you with a tube of my mousse cover-up and a medal forthwith, then," Douglas sniped. "You’re practically one of us, I see that now.”

“Only in the sense that I’ll die one day myself,” Martin shot back.

“How philosophical of you.”

Martin squinted at him. “You’re really at the top of your game today, aren’t you? I’ll have to save up some of your witticisms for my dad.”

Douglas eyed him. “Your dad? See much of him nowadays, then?” After Martin’s reaction upon hearing his father was ready to be released from the Centre, he had assumed that Martin would cut off contact with his undead parent.

“Yes,” Martin drawled with some sarcasm. “I happen to be his son. I drive down to Wokingham when I can. We’ve got lots of catching up to do. At least I _can_ see him. I mean, I sort of pity the families that fled the UK after the Rising - to Russia or China, at least. They’re never going to see their PDS relations again, not unless they come back for a visit.”

Douglas lifted a brow, taken aback at Martin’s reasoning. “Maybe not all those families want to see them again.”

“Yes… but they’re missing out, and it's not fair to the PDSer, is it?” Martin said. “Second chances, like Arthur said. I - I wasn’t sure at first, but… but I got one with my dad.”

“So you have,” Douglas said. The world had turned upside down without him noticing - fearful little Martin Crieff had turned into a PDS rights defender? When had that happened? He was certainly leaving Douglas in the dust conversationally today. “You really are okay with him being…?”

“It was never that,” Martin said, eyes dropping to the yoke as he guided G-ERTI to the standby position in line behind another plane waiting for take-off.

“Hm.” Ambiguous statement, that. Douglas supposed there could be lots of reasons a person might not be glad if a person came back from the dead - actual criminals or abusers being just a few examples. Or maybe Mr Crieff and Martin had just never gotten on. His conjecture was partially confirmed by Martin’s next statement.

“We’re getting the chance now to… to mend some fences.” A pained smiled crossed Martin’s face. “It’s… it’s been hard. But not many people get that, especially if the other person died.”

Yes, Martin was right - not many people got the chance. The fact that Martin was willing to grasp the opportunity in spite of his continued discomfort with PDSers had something twisting unpleasantly inside Douglas’ chest.

“But what about you, Douglas? You must have all your old Air England mates to see. And didn’t you say you were married before?”

Douglas swallowed bile and tried for an even tone. “Three times, as a matter of fact. But alas, my third moved on to greener pastures whilst I lay beneath them. I don’t hold it against her - we were on the rocks anyway.”

“Oh. Sorry to hear it.” Martin blinked. “Three times? Wow. I can’t even get a date! Do you have any children?”

Douglas’ neck was stiff but he nodded. “A daughter, with my second wife. Olivia. She… she’d be thirteen this year.”

“That’s great!” Martin said, oblivious to Douglas’ darkening expression. “It - it must have been hard for her, losing you at such a young age. She must be thrilled to have you back.”

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen her.”

“Douglas!” Martin was aghast. “Why not? Don’t you think you should?”

“No,” Douglas said. “As it happens, I don’t.”

Martin pushed on, a missionary suddenly determined to fix all family relations. “I mean, it might be rather rough for her with her friends, telling them that her dad is a Partially Deceased Syndrome sufferer…”

Douglas’ patience was fraying, threads snapping away with every word Martin babbled. He tried to cut him short. “Martin…”

“But I’m sure she still loves you -”

Douglas turned on him. “Oh, yes, a bit _rough_. I divorced her mother, I didn’t have the decency to exercise my rights to see her often enough when I was living, and then - then I _died_ and started eating people. So, no, I haven’t seen her. I’m not going to see her again.”

Martin had shrunk away from Douglas’ outburst. He swallowed but then had the temerity to whisper, “I - I still think you should try.”

“Martin, shut up. Just - shut up,” Douglas said. No more was spoken between them other than what was needed to pilot G-ERTI.

 

 

**Fitton**

_He’s running, limping and it’s dark. His gasping shouts for help fade to nothing in the night's stillness. Oh god, oh god, what if he’s still behind him, what if he can’t outrun him? He glances behind frequently and the terrible dread keeps him stumbling forward._

 

Martin woke with a gasp, heart pounding. Oh. Oh, that had been bad. He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to regulate his breathing until his heart slowed. He hated that dream, that endless stretch of time when he’d been praying for help and no one had been there. He groaned. He’d thought he’d get better after he’d talked with his dad, that the nightmares would stop. Apparently not.

Flopping back on his pillow, he reached for his phone. He couldn't go back to sleep immediately after a dream like that, and he had a PDF of flight ops he could read. Might as well try to relax. Perhaps his brain could be tricked into dreams of work, as hilariously mundane as that might be. He squinted into the glare of his phone screen and began to review.

 

 

 

Douglas trudged along the street under grey skies, carrier bag swinging from one hand. Thank goodness his old skills in bartering were as good as they’d ever been. Mr Massoud, the owner of a local shop had been too suspicious to deal with a PDSer. His teenage son, however, had been amenable to suggestion in the form of a roll of bills and had finally come through. The soft package wrapped in butcher’s paper nestled on top of several rolls of paper towels and other cleaning supplies with a newspaper covering the lot.

As he passed a small playground noisy with the shouts of children, he kept his eyes on the pavement. But a small voice piped up.

“You’re him. That Rotter that lives in the same building with Tommy?”

Douglas looked at the source of the question. A boy of about ten or eleven was looking at him with the bravado of the typical young male. It was the stone-throwing brat of the other day, Douglas saw.

Douglas stopped. “What makes you say that?”

“Saw you, didn’t I. With my own eyes. All grey and pin-eyed and everything.” The brat scanned him from head to foot. “Yeah. It’s you. Like Tommy said.”

“Is Tommy the asthmatic charmer who keeps scrawling messages on my door in Sharpie?” Douglas enquired, half-amused.

The boy’s expression turned shifty. “Might be.”

“Tell him I’m horribly offended.”

His pint-sized interlocutor made a scornful noise. “Yeah?”

Douglas put on his best superior expression, as wasted as it was on this unequal match. “Yes. ‘Rotter’ has two T’s, ‘die’ shouldn’t have a Y and ‘Munster’ is actually a type of cheese. His spelling is atrocious.”

The boy was less than impressed with this slight upon his wheezy friend. In a conversational tone he gave Douglas a few choice observations. “My Mum says your type is an unnatural abomination. She says you’ll burn in hell.”

“She says that, does she?” Douglas said, stung in spite of himself. “She might not be wrong. Tell me, is she a doctor of theology?”

The sarcasm, unsurprisingly, passed over the brat’s head. “You should be _dead._ All of you Rotters!”

“Yet here I am,” Douglas said. “Funny old world, isn’t it?”

“Harry, come _on!_ ” The high-pitched shout came from a younger girl running up to the boy. “You said you’d play on the tyre swing with me.” Her voice was plaintive and coaxing.

Harry scowled at her. Siblings, definitely, Douglas thought to himself. “You can swing yourself.”

“But you’re the best at pushing, come _on_!” She pulled on his jacket sleeve, half-dragging him around until he laughed and gave in.

“Okay, okay, I’m coming.” With a grin she was off and running to the swings. Harry looked at Douglas, the affectionate smile twisting into a smirk. “See you ‘round, Rotty.” He shoved hands in his pockets and turned away.

Douglas looked past him at the girl, bundled in a vivid red coat against the April chill, her brown plait bouncing as she hopped on her toes waiting for her brother. Douglas turned his head away and walked on.

He hadn’t taken more than ten paces before he abruptly leant against a post, head down and eyes closed.

The process of returning to his flat was as blank as his time as a rabid, but Douglas found himself sitting in his kitchen. The carrier bag sagged on the table in front of him, the wrapped package just visible under the newspaper. Douglas stared at it for several minutes before fumbling his phone from his pocket.

He found himself calling Arthur, of all people. The screen of his phone blurred. He frowned at his trembling hand and braced it against the tabletop to find the number. After a short exchange he pulled his laptop over and flipped it open, effectively blocking his view of the shopping bag.

After about half an hour, a knock sounded. “Come in,” Douglas said. “The door’s not locked.”

Arthur clattered into his flat, thumped several bags on the floor and hung his coat neatly, chattering all the while. “Thanks for inviting me over, Douglas! Wow, so this is your place? It’s brilliant. I love kitchenettes, they’re like little doll-house kitchens, except big! I hope you don’t mind, I didn’t know what DVDs you might have so I brought some of mine. And a bunch of puzzles and some board games! What do you want to do first?”

Douglas shook himself from the usual bemusement that a talkative Arthur induced and replied. “Actually, I had meant to tidy up a bit for company. Well, I say company, but I mean you.”

“Aw! Really?” Arthur beamed. “That’s nice, but you don’t have to go to the trouble for me. Hey, I have an idea. We can have a cleaning party! D’you have any good music?”

Douglas considered his digital collection of classical music and opera and Arthur’s likely musical tastes. “No, I don’t.”

Arthur was undeterred. “That’s all right! We can put a DVD on… oh.” Arthur had noticed the lack of a TV. Douglas began to wonder if he’d done the right thing, asking Arthur to come. With an effort he thrust his decimated house-pride down and lifted his chin.

“I didn’t see the point of buying a telly,” he said.

“Well, yeah!” Arthur agreed. “Waste of money if you just use your PC to watch stuff online all the time. I do that loads. We can put one of the films I brought on your computer and just listen to it. Well, we’d be mostly just listening to it anyway if we’re going to be doing some cleaning. Where should I start?”

Ah, that was the question - and there was only one good answer. “There’s one thing that needs to go right away, if you don’t mind, Arthur. In the carrier bag - that small package?”

Arthur withdrew it and hefted it. “What is it?”

“Sheep’s brains,” Douglas said.

“Brains? From a sheep?” Arthur looked at the innocuous package as if he’d been asked to accept a dead rat. “Eurgh! Why on earth would you have that?”

“It was a mistake,” Douglas said with perfect truth. If Arthur didn’t know that it was one of the few things that PDSers could consume in order to experience a high, he wasn’t going to enlighten him. “Never mind, it’s just something that needs to go.”

“Shall I put it in the trash?” Arthur asked.

“No,” Douglas said. “No, I think it should be flushed, if you please. And wash your hands afterwards.”

“No worries about that!” Arthur wrinkled his nose and went to the small bathroom. Douglas heard rustling. “Oh, _yuck!”_ Arthur exclaimed and Douglas had to smile. The toilet flushed and his shoulders relaxed.

And that was the lovely thing about Arthur - he didn’t question Douglas’ odd request or worry about why he’d got a phone call to come to Douglas’ flat out of the blue. Arthur pulled out one of his favorite films and loaded it into Douglas’ PC. Together they listened to the story of a little fish taken far away from his family and trying to find his way home while the daddy fish searched for his son. After all the surfaces of the flat were dusted and polished, Douglas submitted to a round of _The Game of Life_.

Arthur beat him soundly, but Douglas decided he wouldn’t ponder the significance of his loss too deeply, smiling at Arthur’s obvious pleasure.

“Another round? Or a different game?”

“Okay! I’ve got _Trouble._ Or _Sorry_! Oh, and _Chutes and Ladders._ Or…” Arthur rummaged in his bags. He held up a pack of cards. “ _Uno_?”

“ _Uno_ it is,” Douglas said firmly.

 

 

**Ipswich**

Martin wasn’t thrilled to be going to Ipswich for a Safety and Emergency Procedures course on his day off. But Carolyn had pointed out that the CAA were watching MJN closely, due to their unusual crew and passengers and were likely to come down hard if they didn’t keep strictly up to date. Douglas’ glee at the catering mix-up had him eyeing his first officer with disapproval but really! Two hundred quiches for two living humans? What had they been thinking? Carolyn and Martin both rejected Arthur’s suggestion that they take whatever was uneaten home. As he told Arthur, even if he managed two quiches a day for the next month and a half, he’d soon be very, very sick of them.

Dr Duncan’s session for the pilots quickly descended into sniping between himself and Douglas. Douglas’ insouciant air of superiority was just so, so… irritating! The more Douglas highlighted Martin’s inexperience as a captain with his own splendid past at Air England, the more Martin bristled and shot out all the answers to technical questions before Douglas opened his mouth. Not that he often bothered to - it seemed that Douglas couldn't be bothered to take the course seriously. It was just so patronising, so _Douglas_ that Martin found he was grinding his teeth.

The one-on-one session for first officers seemed to dampen Douglas’ mood, which surprised Martin. He cast him a curious glance before joining Dr Duncan for his own session, wondering at what Dr Duncan had said. Was the man against PDSers holding jobs as pilots? He didn’t look as if he were overly bothered by the presence of Arthur and Douglas.

No, it wasn’t prejudice that had upset Douglas, Martin soon realised. Only the content of the workshop. Dr Duncan quizzed him on procedure for ‘MJN’s special circumstances’, and was genuinely amazed at how quickly Martin was able to give detailed answers. Proper transport of rabids, what to do in cases of missed doses of Neurotriptyline, keeping the safety buffer between cabin and flight deck locked and so on. The words tripped off his tongue without a stutter. It was ops and regs. He could do those all day - so long as he didn’t think too much about the subject matter. But when the topic turned to more direct interactions with PDSers, he began to get flustered.

“...and, and if the situation arises where I’m not able to get to a safe area within the plane, I must… must use my personal contact taser or the ones located fore and aft in the cabin to subdue the PDS sufferer. If they aren’t wearing a collar, the catch pole should be used, putting the loop around the neck to control them. Otherwise, a, a… leash must be attached to the collar in order to return them to the enclosure or secure them to one of the ringbolts found beneath every other seat row. Then I radio for help and explain the situation.”

Dr Duncan nodded. “Yes, yes, quite right.” He pushed his glasses up on his nose and glanced at his notes. “Now, you work with two PDS sufferers, one of them in the flight deck. What would you do?”

Martin swallowed. “If - if Douglas…?”

“If for some reason he went rabid, yes.” Dr Duncan’s brows creased in sympathy at Martin’s discomfort. “Sorry. I have to ask.”

Martin didn’t want to think about it, even though he knew what had to be done perfectly well. He didn’t want to imagine facing a rabid Douglas. Douglas, black-mouthed and growling, turning his greater size and strength on Martin - _no, no, don’t think about it, just answer the question._

Martin went through the procedure to subdue his first officer slowly. The last step came haltingly. “In the event of any of the procedures failing - the taser, the restraints to keep Doug… to keep the copilot in his chair… If the captain’s life is in extreme peril, the captain must. Must.” He gulped. “The captain - he must…”

“Yes?”

“The captain must use the fire axe.” Martin’s stomach turned over. “In the head.”

“Correct. Now, on to another topic - crew resource management…” Martin breathed relief and turned his thoughts to something somewhat more pleasant.

The simulation with the smoke-filled fuselage, amazingly, went even worse than Martin’s personal session. Martin glared over the oxygen mask he held to his face at the former RAF man, Mr Sargent. The instructor was smirking over his clipboard, pleased that they’d failed the test. It hardly seemed fair - Douglas and Arthur didn’t really need smoke hoods except possibly to keep their contacts clear. He silently cursed the man for choosing Arthur to lead the four of them from the fuselage. Arthur had got confused and led them in circles until Martin’s inner ear problem had acted up and he’d fainted. To make things worse, he'd knocked his smoke hood off.

“Skip, you sure you’re all right?” Arthur was all guilty concern.

Martin relinquished the oxygen mask to Carolyn and tried to reassure Arthur. “Yes, I’m fine now. Much better. Don’t worry.”

“Oh, good!” Arthur smiled. “It was sort of brilliant, wasn’t it? Not you falling down, Skip, that was definitely not brilliant. But the way Douglas carried you out was! It was like Dracula holding a swooning lady!”

Martin choked at the visual. Carolyn lifted a brow at her son. “Arthur, dear heart, did you just make a joke about Douglas? Or Martin? I can’t quite tell.”

“Neither! He really did look all swoony!” Arthur protested.

“Arthur,” Carolyn sighed. “Oh, never mind. Go and fetch Martin some water. I have to talk to Mr Sargent about redoing the simulation.”

“Right-o!”

Left alone, Martin looked at Douglas. “Th-thank you for… you know. Carrying me out. It could have got bad, what with my smoke hood getting knocked loose.”

A half-smile lifted the corner of Douglas’ mouth. “You’re welcome. Glad to know I’m good for more than just flying and eating brains.”

“Douglas!” Martin said. “That’s not true. I think you’re, you’re better than that.”

“Do you? That’s some small comfort,” Douglas said. “I always did fancy myself as another Biggles. Though my imagination never quite extended to carrying my limp captain in my arms bridal-style.”

Martin wrinkled his nose at him. “My hero.”

Douglas grinned at that, amused, handsome and… and living, just _alive._ It was horrible and unfair that the CAA expected Martin to just take that from Douglas if things went wrong! He had to say something. “In my session, we talked about - about flight ops. Dr Duncan asked me… You do know that the regulations say I’m supposed to, to kill you. If -”

“I know.” Douglas grimaced. “If.”

“I don’t _want_ to, Douglas!”

Douglas’ face was sober. “Martin, if it comes down to it, you have to. Don’t hesitate.”

“But -”

“I won’t be myself. I won’t know it’s you, and I won’t care.” Douglas held his gaze, completely serious. “It’ll be a mercy.”

“But you might come back! You can get better from being rabid!” Martin protested. “You’d just need another dose of Neurotriptyline!”

“But it would be too late for you.” Douglas gave him a smile, lifting his brows in his typical Douglas-fashion. “Regulations, Captain Crieff.”

“Bugger the regs!” Martin burst out and then clapped a hand over his mouth in mortification as Douglas roared with laughter. “Oh my god, I’ve turned into you,” he moaned. “Stop laughing, you - you ape! How can you laugh about me using a fire axe on you?”

Douglas’ shoulders shook with fresh chuckles. “No, no, stop. I can just see you fumbling about all off-balance with your hat falling over your eyes. Do you even know which is the working end?”

“Of course I do, I’m not an idiot!” Martin sputtered. “And I can’t believe you have the nerve to lecture me on regulations anyway, First Officer Lay-about!”

“That’s me,” Douglas agreed. “A disgrace to the aviation community before, during and after.” He extended a hand and without a thought Martin took it and allowed himself to be heaved to his feet. “Arthur’s taking a long time to get that water. He’s probably lost. Shall we find him?”

Martin began to nod but then frowned, attention caught. “Are you all right? Did you inhale some of the smoke or something? You’ve got…” He gestured at Douglas’ face. A cold shiver went down his spine.

Douglas swiped under his nose and looked at the black stain with annoyance. “Damn. Maybe I did.”

Martin passed him a tissue, proud that his hands didn’t shake, though the small black seepage was unnerving him. “We ought to tell the trainers, find out what chemicals are in it! What if it affects other PDSers?”

“No, don’t worry about it, it’s just a nose-bleed… I mean, a runny nose.” Douglas checked the tissue. “Look, it’s stopped. And… ah, I see our mistress and commander is signalling us.” From across the room, Carolyn was beckoning them over. Martin exchanged a look of long-suffering with Douglas. Douglas heaved a sigh. “Come on, captain. Let’s go and be lectured at by the bullet-headed shouty man.”

“Mr Sargent,” Martin corrected but his lips twitched.

“Isn’t that what I said?” said Douglas in his most innocent tone. Martin rolled his eyes and followed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger Warning - Douglas, as an ex-alcoholic and general hedonist in life, has what might be considered an addictive personality this fic. The tendency is exacerbated by his depression over his current life. As oblivion through alcohol is no longer an option, he buys the only thing beside Blue Obivion drug seen in In The Flesh that will take him away from himself. He hits his limit when he see the little girl in the playground. Subsequently he calls Arthur for an intervention.
> 
>  
> 
> Loads of swapping between the serious and the ridiculous this chapter, but I hope the ending is hopeful enough for a Christmas day posting.
> 
> Every game Arthur brought to Douglas' place is all about losing at life, really. (Except Uno.) Poor Douglas. The 'Finding Nemo' bit was written ages before Zurich aired, so that's a happy coincidence.
> 
> But hurrah for Martin and Douglas really cementing their odd friendship!
> 
> Happy Holidays!


	9. Priorities in a Burning House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Douglas prove their mettle on one of MJN's trips to Norfolk Treatment Centre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for panic attack this chapter. See end of Chapter for more notes (spoilers).

**May 2013, Newcastle**

Arthur knew it was an important part of MJN’s work, but he didn’t really like these flights, the ones where they were transporting untreated PDSers. They weren’t really rabid, not with the sedation, but it made him sad to see their blank faces and slow movements. He told himself he was being silly, that he was helping them get better by taking them to a safe place. In the Centre, they would get help and recover, just like he had. He loved his job, really. But some days weren't as brilliant as others. Like today.

He watched, Martin hovering nervously just behind his shoulder as the handler dragged a stumbling woman into G-ERTI with a catch pole. With a brutal shove he pushed her into the cage. She tripped over the elderly man crouching on the floor and fell against the side of the cage, just catching herself on the bars. Grinning, the man loosened the noose from her neck and slammed the cage door shut and locked it.

“You don’t have to be so mean,” Arthur said. “She’s someone’s family, you know!”

“She’s a Rotter,” the man replied. “Don’t be so soft. Just look at the state of her. She’d have a go at me if she could. Been hiding in old mines for ages. You don’t think people just disappeared ‘cuz they fell into shafts, do you? Stone cold killer, that one.”

Arthur looked at the woman dubiously. She was strikingly tall and broad for a lady, just about his own height, maybe bigger. Matted blond hair fell into her face as she looked at the three observers.

“He - he’s right, you know. You shouldn’t be so rough. In, in fact you can’t. They have to be delivered undamaged… I mean, uninjured.” Martin squared his shoulders. “S-so, if any harm’s been done, MJN will hold you liable. I still have to sign off on the paperwork, you know.”

Arthur felt a bit like cheering, but held his tongue as the man glared at Skip. “Nothing wrong with them other than what you see. And what they are,” he muttered and thrust a small clipboard at Martin. Martin scrutinised the paperwork, darting quick glances between it and their new passengers to see that the physical descriptions matched before signing it. The handler snatched it back. “There. Happy now? Anything happens to the cargo now, it’s all on your heads. Bleeding heart.”

Without a further word he turned and left. Martin pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh, looking away from the cage. “Arthur, can you get everything settled? I want to get away from here as soon as possible.”

“Sure thing, Skip!” Martin headed forward as Arthur pulled the heavy exit door shut and sealed it. He picked up the intercom. “All ready, guys!” The noise of G-ERTI’s engines increased and there was a small jolt as the plane began to move. Arthur moved closer to the enclosure. The old man was still squatting on the floor, dull-eyed from whatever sedation he’d received. The woman was patting at the bars, sniffing them. She gave one a tug and made a low noise in her throat.

“It’s okay,” Arthur told her. “We’re bringing you to a place where they can help you.” She fixed her white eyes on him. “Look, it’s all right. I’m like you.” He tugged at his cravat and lifted his chin, showing her the demarcation between makeup and his own natural white flesh. She only turned away and shuffled to the other side of the cage, touching the bars again.

“Um. Okay,” Arthur said. He straightened his shoulders and addressed them both. “When… when the ‘Fasten Seatbelt’ light comes on, please sit on the floor. During the flight, if the light comes on due to turbulence, please, er, sit on the floor. And hold the bars. In fact, feel free to sit at anytime, we prefer it when passengers sit because Mum says roaming passengers are a nuis - anyway.” He put on his brightest professional smile. “Thank you for choosing MJN Air!”

It was a little silly, Arthur didn’t think they understood. But they were like him, so he said it anyway. He hoped he’d see them again one day when they got better.

 

 

**Norfolk Treatment Centre**

Douglas clicked on the radio. “Golf Tango India to Little Snoring ATC, requesting permission to land, over.”

“Little Snoring ATC, continue on your current vector, Golf Tango India. You’re free to come in,” came the reply. “Welcome back, Dead Air. Over.”

“Sorry, was that a request to repeat?” Douglas asked. “I don’t think you heard me. Did my radio expire? Hello? Over.”

“What? No, Golf Tango, you’re not allowed to turn the joke back onto ATC. Good one, though. Howzit, Douglas? Cold hands on the yoke today? Over.”

“Sorry, Bill, that privilege belongs to our very own hot-blooded Captain Crieff today.”

“Douglas!” Martin yelped. “That’s not appropriate!”

“As you can hear,” Douglas continued smoothly. “Over.”

“Pity. Had a joke all set up about ghost planes. Over.”

“An obvious one, Bill, as was the one last time I flew here about zombies getting it up faster. Over.”

“For god’s sake, Douglas!”

“Ha. Right. Well, I’ll sign off since since someone’s _killing_ all the fun. Over.”

“Good one!” Douglas approved. “You’ll hear my suave voice from beyond the veil later, Bill. Try not to miss me too much. Over.”

“Perish the thought. Over and out.” The ATC disconnected with a satisfied _ha!_ at having got the last joke in.

Martin’s annoyance was almost visibly rising from him, Douglas mused. He waited with pleasurable anticipation for the upbraiding to follow.

“Has dying killed your sense of professionalism utterly? You can’t talk to the ATC like that, there’s a protocol to be followed!” Martin said.

Ah, there it was. Martin was so predictable that Douglas’ own response took hardly any thought. “Well, as a wise captain I knew once said,” he drawled. “Bugger the regs.”

Martin’s sudden snort of laughter had Douglas grinning. “You - you can’t hold that against me,” Martin said.

“Oh, but I can,” Douglas said. “In answer to your question, no, I was pretty much always like this. Why stop now?”

“Because I’m afraid it’s catching and one day I’ll look about and find I’ve descended to your level,” Martin replied.

“I think you mean _ascended_ ,” Douglas quipped. “But if you practice long and hard enough, young Grasshopper, one day I’ll allow you to sit at my feet and learn the secret to becoming a sky-god.”

“Oh, wonderful,” Martin said. “I await that day with huge anticipation, I _don’t_ think.”

Douglas chuckled and flicked on the intercom to tell Arthur they were about to land.

 

 

The two handlers from Norfolk Treatment Centre wore serviceable blue coveralls with name patches. Martin squinted at them as the heavier one checked the paperwork and nodded. David, that was him. He remembered him from previous visits, a quiet man who did his job without much fuss. The taller one holding the catch poles and looking around G-ERTI was James.

“You’re new, aren’t you?” Martin asked. “I haven’t seen you before.”

James shook his head. “Nah, was in janitorial before this. So this is the famous MJN, is it?” He ran mocking eyes over Arthur and Douglas. “Can’t say it’s what I expected.”

“What, is it better than what you thought?” Arthur asked.

James snorted. “Better that Rotters get to have cushy jobs flying airplanes and all, while I’m stuck-”

“James,” David said without looking up from his clipboard. “We’ve talked about this before.”

“Not to worry - I’m sure with your winning personality you’ll be living a life of ease and luxury in no time,” Douglas said. “Just like me.”

Martin groaned inwardly. James’ jaw jutted forward belligerently. “What did you say?”

Douglas looked bored. “Oh, nothing. Only I’m sure that your doubtless stunning skill sets are obviously being wasted in your position.”

James turned red but to Martin’s surprise, he didn’t explode. Instead, a look of low cunning came into his eyes. “Right. Sure.” He turned to his co-worker. “Dave, I have a workplace health and safety issue I want to bring up.”

David was clearly annoyed. “What?”

“There are four Deadies… oh, excuse me, two PDS _sufferers_ and two untreated... and only three humans, one of whom isn’t trained in handling them - or part of the union.”

“For fuck’s sake, Jim! Don’t be an ass," David groaned. "The rabids are locked up.”

“But two _are_ unrestrained,” James pointed out. “And this is a situation where I am uncomfortable and feel threatened for my safety.” The stilted phrase sounded as if he were parroting a handbook.

“I took my dose like I’m supposed to,” Arthur said, worried. “You really feel uncomfortable?”

Douglas huffed a disgusted breath at how Arthur was playing into the man’s hands. Martin protested. “Excuse me, but there’s nothing wrong here! You don’t need to take that tone. Douglas and Arthur are just as human as we are.”

“But Skip,” Arthur said. “What about them? Aren’t they human too?” He gestured at the caged rabids.

“I, er, I didn’t mean -” Martin began.

Douglas’ gaze was cool. “Yes, Martin, please try to remember that we’re all still part of the human race, if somewhat disadvantaged.” Martin flushed and dropped his gaze.

“I don’t give a toss about that,” James said. “Dave, this could be a union issue.”

David was disgusted but gave way. “Fine. How can we resolve _your_ little problem?"

“That one clears off,” James said immediately, jerking a thumb at Douglas. His eye fell on the galley door with its keypad. “Get him locked up.”

“But you can’t do that!” Arthur said.

“I agree,” Martin said, trying to make up for his slip. “Anyway, we all know the codes.”

“Bet there’s one that’s supposed to keep him penned up for when he goes off his head,” James said. “Bet there’s one that works only from this side.” He grinned when he saw Martin’s expression. “Thought so.” He nodded to Douglas. “Off you pop.”

David blew a disgusted breath but only shook his head slightly at Arthur’s exclamation of dismay. “Union. Sorry, chaps. Nothing I can do - he'll just kick up a fuss and make things worse.”

Douglas straightened from his slouch against the back of a seat, cast the gloating James a fulminating look and stalked forward. Martin exchanged an unhappy glance with Arthur and trailed after. “Douglas, I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

“It’s not your fault, Martin,” Douglas said. “I find I’m rather in need of the air in the galley anyway - it’s fresher than the hot air being blown about aft. Coffee for you while I wait?”

“Um, maybe later.” He checked behind to see if anyone was watching and leaned closer. “Don’t worry - if I don’t let you out, Arthur knows the code as well.”

“Well, there’s another clear health and safety issue,” Douglas said. “Alert the union, I feel uncomfortable and threatened for our safety. Arthur? Really?”

“Yes, really. He _is_ the steward,” Martin retorted but felt marginally better as he shut the door and tapped the keypad.

Arthur was watching anxiously as David guided the man from the cage with the catch pole. “Be careful with him. He looks so old!”

“No worries, you know I always am,” David said. “Jim, you want to help me here or are you just going to stand around all day insulting these gents?”

James squinted at the woman, who was sitting hunched on the floor, unmoving. “Nah, I’ve got this one. Neither one looks very lively, heh.”

“Right,” David said. “So, union rules only work when you want them, or did you forget that two of us are supposed to escort one sufferer at a time?”

“Oh, no,” James said. “Union rules still apply, and they say I got a break coming up in twenty. So you wanna hurry it up?”

“Arsehole,” David said but led the old man carefully down the steps.

Arthur rapped on the cage gently. “Hello? You should get up. It’s time to go see a doctor. They’ll fix you up here. Hello?”

The woman turned her head slightly at the noise but made no move to get up. James rolled his eyes. “Open it up. I’ve got better things to do.” Martin hissed an annoyed breath but opened the cage and stepped well away. James loosened the noose on his catch stick and looped it over the woman’s neck, snugging it tight with what Martin thought was unnecessary force. The woman’s head came up and she pawed at the noose.

“Hey!” Arthur said. “You don’t have to choke her.” He was clearly getting more upset by the man's behaviour.

“It won’t hurt her, dummy,” James said, “Now shut up and let me do my job.” He tugged at the restraint, rocking the woman.

Martin clenched his hands. He was going to file a complaint - maybe handlers didn’t have to be very careful with people who didn’t feel pain, but James seemed to take enjoyment in seeing how far he could go without actually causing injury. Arthur was looking between him and James, pleading with his eyes for Martin to do something. James began to use the stick as a lever, forcing her chin in the air, but still she didn’t budge. James cursed. Yes, Martin thought, he’d definitely say something later to Halperin and Weston.

“Fuck’s sake, would you get up!” James snapped at the woman. He pulled harder, straining against her weight. She rose ponderously to her feet then in one swift motion threw herself backwards, tearing the catch stick from James’ hands. Arthur gasped. James yelped and tried to slam the cage door but it hit the stick and bounced. “Jesus!” His eyes flew around the cabin wildly, settling on the aft taser. Arthur jumped forward to block him, arms spread wide.

“No! No, you can’t! Leave her alone!”

Martin was frozen, breath stuck in his throat. The rabid snarled and James jerked back. “Fuck it! You deal with it!” In a second he was out the door. Arthur began to turn but the woman thrust an arm through the gap in the door, grasped his shoulder and yanked him against the cage, the jolt rattling the bars. Her forearm went against his throat and Arthur wheezed, eyes wide. He struggled against the crushing strength to no avail.

Oh, god, _Arthur_. Martin’ paralysis dropped away and he leapt forward to grab Arthur’s waistcoat. He yanked with all his strength at the same time Arthur pulled on her arm and together they broke her grip. Off-balance, Martin staggered back and fell with Arthur's full weight atop him. Arthur's shoulder drove into his sternum and Martin gasped. Reflexively his body tried its best to curl around the pain in his solar plexus. His mouth opened and closed. Arthur lifted his head, aghast. “Skip, are you -” But his eyes widened and with a startled yell Arthur was lifted off him. Martin managed to roll to his side, breath seeping in with a thin whistle. His watering eyes flew to the two struggling figures swaying over him.

The rabid had Arthur’s arm at an awkward angle, one hand in his hair. "Stop it! Let go!" Arthur shouted, blindly reaching behind to flail at her with his free arm. Growling, she lowered her head to his and sniffed. Her nose wrinkled and she hissed in disappointment. Arthur twisted and nearly broke free. With a hard shove she pushed him away and he fell. His head hit a seat armrest with a dull thump. He collapsed, groaning.

Martin struggled to draw a full breath, to call for help, to scream, but the only sound that emerged was a whimper. His hands scrabbled against the floor. Dimly he could hear pounding, shouting. The woman’s face lifted. Her pale eyes fixed on him. _No, no._

Martin pedalled his legs, the heels of his shoes skidding on the carpet, scooting him back and away. Time stretched out into infinity as the woman stalked him, catch pole knocking against seats. _No, no, not again._ His lips were moving but all sound had been swallowed up by the rising cacophony of his racing heart. Martin’s back hit something solid - the door of the galley - and there was nowhere left to go. His contact taser was somehow in his numb hands. Cowering, he looked up as the figure loomed closer. The rabid’s nostrils flared. She lurched at him, hands curved into claws. “ _No!”_ He instinctively flung up his arm to cover his face, taser forgotten. Her hand was on his leg, yanking him forward and he couldn’t. He couldn’t be here anymore. So he wasn’t - something clicked and he went somewhere else.

It was worse.

 

 

“Martin! Arthur! Let me out, unlock the fucking door! Martin!” Douglas roared. He’d decided he’d actually do the nice thing for once and make Martin that cup of coffee. He’d been stirring milk into it when he’d heard the commotion, shouting and thumps. Dropping the spoon, he began pounding on the locked galley door, cursing. More crashing noises, and then Douglas’ heart dropped into his stomach at the sound of Martin’s cut-off scream. “Damn it!” He threw his shoulder against it, knowing it was no good. The door, unlike so many parts on G-ERTI, was new and solidly built. Balling his fists, he beat them against the unyielding metal. “Martin! Are you okay, let me out!”

It was too quiet on the other side. He was just about to hurry into the flight deck and radio for help when he heard Arthur.

“Skip! Skip? Are you okay?” There was a shuffling sound and a thin, high noise. “Oh… Okay. Yes, you just stay there, Skip.” Arthur’s voice was slow and careful, as though he were speaking to a child or an animal. “I’ll… I’ll get Douglas.” The door keypad beeped, the lock clicked and Douglas wrenched it open so hard that Arthur nearly fell in upon him. He caught him by the shoulders.

“What happened? Where’s Martin?”

“The woman, she - she went wild. She attacked me, I stopped her but -” Arthur shook his head, distress etching his face. “Skip. I think Skip needs help, but he won’t let me near.” Arthur looked to his left. Douglas followed his gaze and saw Martin sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, his taser held in two shaking hands. He had squeezed himself into the corner between the galley wall and the first row of seats. Aside from rumpled and torn clothing, he was unharmed, no blood or injuries evident. But he looked utterly unhinged, breath coming too fast. His irises were completely ringed in white and fixed on Arthur.

“Christ,” Douglas muttered. He took a careful step into the cabin. “Martin. Are you all right?” Stupid question, it was obvious he wasn’t. Martin didn't look at him, didn't even seem to register that he was being addressed.

“Skip, it’s okay, I got her!” Arthur said. “Grabbed the catch stick and pulled her away. I tased her.” He shuffled. “Maybe more than once. She's really scary - and strong! So you don’t have to worry.” Before Douglas could stop him, Arthur edged around him and extended his hand to help Martin to his feet.

The change was dramatic. Martin kicked out, shoes scuffling against carpet as he wedged himself further in the corner. “No, no, stay away, you _stay away!”_

The taser was jabbed in their direction, sparking and clicking. Arthur flinched at the sound. “Dad, _no,_ ” Martin pleaded and his tone was so despairing that it was a punch in Douglas’ chest. With one hand he grabbed Arthur by the back of his waistcoat, heaved him away and moved to block Martin’s view. Douglas heard Arthur’s startled exclamation as he caught himself on a seat back but he couldn’t worry about him now.

“Arthur,” Douglas said, and it was an effort to keep his voice even. He needed to be - no, impossible, he wasn’t calm at all, but he had to _sound_ it for Martin’s sake. “Get that thing back in the cage.”

“But Skip… I just wanted to help -”

“Arthur.” Douglas shifted just enough that Arthur was still hidden from Martin and looked at him. “Not now. You look... You don’t look yourself. You’re frightening Martin. He’s not in his right mind just now. Leave it to me, all right?”

Arthur did look a mess. A sleeve was mostly torn away, exposing pale skin and dark veins. His make-up was smeared and one of his brown contacts was missing. Arthur looked at where mousse had rubbed away on his hands and back to Douglas. His voice was very small. “Oh.”

“You did well, Arthur. Brilliantly,” Douglas told him. “You saved Martin, but let me handle it now. Just get that… take our guest back to the cage and put her away safely. That’s the best thing to do. Martin can’t look at you right now, so just… stay out of sight.”

Arthur’s expression was heartbroken but he obeyed, ducking low to move down the aisle to where the rabid lay moaning.

Douglas lowered himself to the carpet, leaving a margin of space between himself and Martin. Now Arthur was gone, Martin’s gaze was unfocused and staring at the taser he held. “Martin?” Douglas asked. “Martin. Would you look at me?” When the grey eyes shifted to his face he smiled. “That’s better. It’s not so bad here on the floor, is it? Just you and me. Martin and Douglas. You don’t mind, do you? G-ERTI here could have newer carpeting, but we’ll take what we can get, right?”

Martin’s chin dipped. Douglas returned the nod. “Good. I just wanted to ask a few things, if you’re up to answering. You’re here, in MJN’s jet. What’s your job?”

“Cap - captain,” Martin said. “Pilot.” Douglas winced in sympathy at the roughness of Martin’s voice, but at least he was speaking. As a series of thumps indicated Arthur was following his instructions, Douglas raised his voice to cover the noise. He had Martin tell him simple things - how old he was, where they were, what clothes he was wearing. Slowly Martin came back from wherever he’d gone, voice growing stronger. He began to shake, full body tremors that caused the taser in his clenched hands to quake.

“Your finger’s not on the trigger of that thing, is it?” Douglas asked. Martin shook his head. “Grand. That’s good, because you’re safe. We can put it away now, because nothing’s going to hurt you. I'm here. You’re completely safe. It’s fine. I’m going to take it and put it back in your holster now. It’ll be within your reach the way it always is.”

Douglas curled his fingers around the device, praying that Martin was stable enough not to see him as a threat. With a visible effort Martin unclenched his fingers and Douglas eased the taser free, exhaling in relief. He leaned over and tucked it in Martin’s holster. “There. Do you mind if I take your pulse? Sorry about my hands, they’re always a bit cold. Bit like a doctor’s stethoscope if they don’t breathe on it first.” Best he remind Martin of the fact so he was prepared.

“O-okay.”

Martin’s heart rate was a touch fast, as was his breathing. “Deep breaths, Martin. Nice and easy.” Douglas’ eyes flicked over him in the old patterns remembered from his medical training. His glance fell upon the tear in Martin’s trouser leg and he paused. There were scars dimpling the muscle of Martin’s calf, pink and smooth. Douglas swallowed, throat tight. Suddenly so many things about Martin made sense now.

“It was my dad.” Douglas’ gaze returned to Martin’s white face. “My dad, he… he-”

“I know,” Douglas said, a terrible pity filling him. “I know. You don’t have to say it.”

But Martin went on, his hoarse voice snagging and catching as he tried to get it out. “My, my van. Ran out of gas. I was walking and, and he was there. He was th-there, and it was dark and he - he - it was my dad. He did that. He - he tried. Tried to...”

From a seat row behind, Arthur made a pained noise. Martin’s eyes opened wide, darting about wildly before he hunched up, hiding his face in his arms. From the corner of his eye Douglas caught movement and turned his head in time to see Arthur ducking out of sight. Douglas reined in his temper with a huge effort. “Arthur, go and sort out your make-up, tidy up your clothes. Make yourself useful and get Martin a drink. Something hot. Understand?"

Arthur’s voice was croaky. “I - I understand. But my contact lens fell out and I don’t think I have spares with me.”

“Then find some sunglasses!”

“Okay. Right. Good idea. Sorry. Sorry, Douglas. Sorry, Skip.” Arthur went aft to the toilet and shut the door. Douglas blew out a breath, pushed himself to his feet and got a blanket. He tucked it around Martin. Martin’s shoulders were heaving. Helpless, Douglas sat in the seat next to him and rubbed the narrow back.

“Martin, you just sit there until you feel better. Arthur will make you some coffee and I’ll bring it to you when he’s done. I have a feeling that shortly those incompetents from Halperin and Weston will be back with reinforcements. They’ll take our unwanted guest away and you won’t ever have to see her again. So… So just stay put. Will you be okay?”

Martin didn’t answer. Douglas heard the clatter of footsteps on G-ERTI’s stairs and stood to meet their visitors, grim. David burst into the cabin, panting, followed by two heavy-set security types with cattle prods and shackles. After a quick glance around, his eyes settled on the locked cage where the woman lay groaning and he sagged in relief. “Oh, thank god.”

“Where the _hell_ have you lot been?” Here was an easy target for Douglas’ roiling emotions, though he kept his voice low. “One of your new charges goes wild and starts attacking people and it took you this long to respond?”

David’s mouth turned down. “Ran into James after I’d settled the old man. Asked him where the woman was, and he told me some cock and bull story about how he’d left her because she was being unruly and he didn’t think he could handle her alone after all, and could I give him a hand? But he was kind of pale and twitchy and trying to hide it, and that’s when I realised something must have gone wrong. I got here as fast as I could.” He shook his head with disgust. “I get the feeling that if I hadn’t asked him about the sufferer, he wouldn’t have said anything. That sod. I’m going to hang him out to dry for this, union or not.”

“I’ll do it myself if you don’t,” Douglas said. His hand curled into a fist. “I was locked up front, thanks to your compatriot, so I didn’t witness what happened. But Arthur can tell you. She went after both him and Martin.” He directed his glare at the two security men. “Get her off our plane. Now. I don’t want her here a minute longer.”

David nodded at the men and they moved to obey. “They managed to subdue her? Arthur and Martin?”

“Yes. Arthur’s fine. He’s just in the toilet now, fixing his makeup. Martin…” Douglas paused.

“Should I get a medic?” David asked. “Is he all right?”

Douglas blew out a breath. “Send one here, if you have one that won't make assumptions. Martin’s in no state to go into your facility right now.” Might as well send a lamb into a lion’s den as Martin into a building filled with untreated PDSers right now. He watched as the security men carried the securely-bound rabid down G-ERTI’s steps. Noticing David’s apprehensive expression, he added, “No, he has no physical injuries.”

 _Not injured, no._ Douglas thought of Martin huddled on the floor shivering, of his maimed leg. Not injured. But Martin was definitely not all right.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW - Martin is attacked by a rabid and it triggers his PTSD left from the night his dad attacked him. Douglas talks him down.
> 
>  
> 
> One step forward, two long steps back for Martin, unfortunately - and he'd been doing so well. Douglas and Arthur are heroes of varying degree this chapter.
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting! I'm thrilled people are enjoying this.


	10. Inflatable Life-vests for the Drowning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin is getting worse. Arthur is worried and even Carolyn is concerned. Luckily, Douglas knows just what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long hiatus - this chapter in particular hit some snags, and I resisted doing rewrites for ages. Hope it does the trick.

“Martin, could you pass me the knife with the black handle?” Martin draws the requested knife from the block and places it in his father’s outstretched hand. “Ta. This other one’s getting a bit dull, I think,” Geoff says. He rearranges the piece of meat on the cutting board and slices into it. “Ah, much better.”

Martin looks at the thin seepage of red juice from the beef, slightly queasy. He shrugs his shoulders, shaking off his disquietude. He turns back to his own tasks, setting the chopped carrots aside and working on the tomatoes. He struggles with these, the thin skin tearing and seeds and juice squirting.

“No, you’re doing that wrong, son. You’re using the wrong knife,” his dad says, chuckling. “You need a serrated one.” He reaches past Martin’s elbow and plucks the knife from his hand, dropping it into the sink with a clatter. “Poor tomatoes. What did they ever do to you?”

“It’s only for a stew, Dad. It's not going to matter how they look.” But Martin’s defense is weak and comprised mostly of amusement, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Besides, they started it." The tomatoes really do look a mess, a mangled red pile in the centre of his cutting board. Rather horrible, if he’s honest with himself. He wrinkles his brow and looks at his father, who is piling cubes of meat into a pan and dusting them with salt. “Why are we making stew again? I can’t remember. Is Mum off tonight with her coffee group?”

“I like a good bit of beef,” Geoff replies. A small chunk spills from the overflowing pan onto the counter and he picks it up and pops it in his mouth. “Mm. Better without the salt, but you know how I like it rare.”

“Dad,” Martins says, that strange sense of unreality creeping over him again. “Dad, you can’t eat.”

“What are you talking about, Martin? Of course I can.” His father turns to smile at him and black liquid trickles over grey lips. His eyes, oh god, they’re white. The unease coalesces, solidifies into dread. Martin can’t move, his feet won’t lift from the floor. “I’ve always been able to eat. Just the diet’s changed.” He sways towards Martin and Martin is trapped against the counter. His father’s cold hands settle on his shoulders, grip tight. “But it’s been so long since I’ve had a decent meal, son. So very long.” He bends his head as if about to give Martin an affectionate kiss and -

 

 

Martin flung back the bedcovers and bolted to the bathroom just in time to lose his dinner. When the last spasm was over, he reached with a trembling hand for a wad of toilet paper, wiping his streaming eyes and mouth. It was still dark outside, god knew what time it was. But he knew that the chance of sleeping through the night was next to nil. He rested his head on the cool plastic of the toilet seat and closed his eyes. No flying for him tomorrow. God. The one great joy in his life, and he wouldn’t be able to lose himself and his problems in doing it. He wasn’t fit to fly - and he knew it. A small noise of misery escaped his throat. He’d send a text message to Carolyn and let her know he was taking another sick day - just as soon as he was able to convince his legs to move.

 

 

**May 2013, Fitton**

“Here’s the rest of the paperwork.” Carolyn took the proffered forms from Alec Thompson and flicked through them as he stood before her. He cleared his throat. “So. This is the fourth time you’ve called me in -”

“Third,” Douglas said, not looking up from his calculations.

Thompson ignored him, focussing on Carolyn. “Not that I mind being a pilot-at-large, but if your captain keeps having sick days, would you consider taking me on in a more permanent capacity?”

It was doubtless Carolyn’s imagination that the tone of Thompson’s voice held a hope that Martin would just disappear entirely, leaving a convenient gap for Thompson to step into. Caroline raised her voice to cover Douglas’ grumble. “Yes, well. Thank you, Mr Thompson, for coming on board again, and on such short notice. I’ll keep you in mind - one never knows.” He nodded, smiled at her and left.

“One never knows, but you do, Carolyn,” Douglas said from the table he and Martin shared as a desk. He leaned back and swung his feet up. Carolyn glared but decided it wasn’t a battle worth fighting today. “Never mind that at least one of your pilots is quite reliable. You’ll be calling him in again, then?”

“And why would you say that?” she asked.

“ _Mister_ Thompson. You are only ever polite to people whose money or services you need.”

“And so often the two are combined in one.” She lifted a brow. “Well spotted, Poirot. At least he’s been available.”

“More’s the pity. When you compare this fellow to how Martin was when we first took him on, Martin was so much more warm and friendly. Why, he barely treated me at all like something unfortunate he’d found he’d stepped in,” Douglas quipped. “But I think this Thompson is warming up to me. I could swear he almost thought of saying goodbye to me just now.”

Carolyn laughed in spite of herself but then sighed. “I don’t want to _have_ to call him again, mind. What I need is for our usual pilot to be available at the snap of my fingers!”

“Yes, well,” Douglas said but his face sobered and he dropped his feet from the table.

It had been two weeks since that disastrous Suffolk flight and after a grace period of two days leave, Martin had returned to work. Day by day, the shadows under his eyes grow more prominent until it seemed he was only operating on coffee and determination. Arthur was walking on eggshells and even Douglas’ usual sarcasm had lost its bite.

Carolyn tapped her nails on the desk, uncharacteristically restless as she considered the problem of Martin. Douglas was right - Martin had improved much over his time with MJN and she’d grown - well, _fond_ was such a soppy word, she preferred to say she’d grown accustomed to his quirks and was satisfied with his performance. And if the story a distraught Arthur had told her about Martin’s dad had caused her hard heart to crack a little on his behalf, she would at least allow Martin the dignity of treating him as she always had, or nearly so. With the collusion of a willing Douglas and a worried Arthur, new protocols had been implemented to ensure Martin came into contact with treated PDSers as little as possible and with the untreated not at all.

But the best intentions of MJN’s finest were to no avail - Martin was falling to pieces. Carolyn met Douglas’ dark eyes. “He can’t go on this way.” Her meaning was clear. She’d have to let Martin go.

Douglas nodded. “Pragmatism suggests so. It’s a hard choice. I… wouldn’t like to see him go. Not when he’s just started to fly like an actual pilot, due in no small part to my own magnificent self.”

“Don’t sprain your wrist patting yourself on the back too hard, Douglas,” she said. “I know what you’ve done for him. And then there’s finding another pilot who will tolerate your massive ego, amongst other the other things.”

“I know.” Douglas’ smile was twisted. "I very nearly feel sorry for myself. But then I think of Martin." He shook his head. "My god."

“Yes. Then there's Martin. If the idiot boy would just get some help,” she muttered. “It was bad enough for MJN’s business dealing with investigation over the Suffolk incident. But Martin’s heading head-first for a breakdown, and when that happens, then… “ She tapped her nails on the desk once more before folding her hands together. “The CAA doesn’t let unstable pilots keep their licenses.”

“Well, we can’t let that happen, can we? MJN needs her captain,” Douglas said. “Tomorrow’s free according to the schedule, is it not?”

“Indeed it is,” Carolyn said.

Douglas picked up his seldom-worn pilot’s hat and brushed imaginary lint from it. “Perhaps I’ll drop by and see him. Bring a fruit basket or such, since he’s not feeling well.” They exchanged a speaking look and Carolyn smiled in satisfaction. If she could avoid speaking to Martin on an official level about his problems, all the better. She didn’t want to panic the poor boy into fits.

“That’s so kind. What an altruistic person you are, Douglas,” Carolyn said sweetly. “I had no idea.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Carolyn,” Douglas said. He stood up and swept her a mocking bow, cap covering his heart. “It takes one to know one, after all.” He placed the hat on his head with a purposeful tug. “Once more into the breach, then.” He cast her one last smirk before striding from the portacabin.

“Ridiculous old flatterer,” Carolyn huffed but turned back to her account books, pleased.

 

 

Douglas strolled to G-ERTI’s parking area, looking for Arthur. He’d recently won Arthur’s car in a bet, and was graciously allowing him to work off the debt with the occasional spot of chauffeuring. Well, Carolyn had suggested the forfeit when Arthur had confessed. Douglas had taken the hint. “Young Shappey?” he called. “All finished hoovering?”

Arthur poked his head out. “Yes, pretty much. You want to go home? Hang on, I’ll get my keys.”

As Arthur drove, Douglas hummed a snatch of opera and waited. The signs were obvious, since it was Arthur, after all - he had something he wanted to say but wasn’t sure how to broach it. Arthur tapped the steering wheel, shifted in his seat like a child and shifted gears as though he were on Top Gear. Douglas checked the buckle of his seat belt once more. He didn’t want to die twice over just yet. “No need to rush, Arthur, it’s not as if I’d left the oven on or anything,” he said mildly.

“Oh! Right. Sorry.” Arthur reduced speed. He glanced at Douglas. “Uh. Can - can I ask you for a favour?”

“A favour?” Douglas tapped his chin in thought, pretending to consider. “Hm. Depends on what you want. All right, ask away.”

“Well… well, I know Mum’s not happy with Skip right now and Skip’s not doing okay and I think Skip is great and I don’t want him to go so I wondered if you could make it so Martin doesn’t get fired?” Arthur got it all out in one breath and looked at Douglas expectantly.

“You think I can do that? Change your mother’s mind if she’s made it up?” Douglas asked.

Arthur’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah. But - but she hasn’t decided yet, has she? And anyway, if you can’t change _her_ , maybe you can fix Skip?”

“Goodness,” Douglas said. “You do have confidence in me.”

“Of course I do!” Arthur said. “I’d try, but Skip was so scared of me that day. I don’t think I should do it. He talked to you. You helped him, Douglas. And…” His brow creased. “It’s just, just the _opposite-of-brilliant_ that Skip is scared again. I really don’t like it.”

“Yes.” Douglas didn’t like it much himself. “No surprise that Martin has issues. He does try, but let’s face it - anyone who’s been through what he has would be a tad nervy. Don’t take it to heart. ”

“I won’t,” Arthur said. “But I know he can get better! Skip is so clever! I mean, both of you are pilots and you’ve got to be pretty clever to do that. But did you know I played a game with him once where I named a section of the flight manual and he’d tell me what was in it?”

“Oh, the infamous Flight Manual Bingo? Yes, I know that one,” Douglas said. He’d lost and Martin had gloated for days.

“Wow. I have trouble even remembering the words to Beatles songs!” Arthur was impressed.

Privately Douglas thought that in Martin’s case, a perfect memory might be a curse, all things considered. He himself often wished he remembered less, but the Neurotriptyline was doing its job rebuilding neural pathways and returning more nightmarish memories to him. He had a certain fellow feeling for Martin’s plight. “What,” he said to Arthur to distract himself. “Are you saying I’m not as clever as Martin?”

“No, of course not!” Arthur protested. “You’re both brilliant! But…” Arthur couldn’t find a way to put it in a diplomatic manner.

Douglas chuckled. “Not to worry, Arthur. I’m aware my brilliance lies in other areas, but not in between the pages of the flight manual.”

“Yeah,” Arthur said, relieved. “But, Skip - Douglas, I don’t want him to leave MJN. I don’t want a different captain.”

“I concur.”

Arthur’s mouth turned down in unhappiness. “I keep thinking about what Skip said, about his dad. It’s _awful_.”

“They’re getting on well now,” Douglas said. He hoped.

“Oh, that’s good! I know Skip was always kind of nervous, but I never knew how bad it was.” Arthur’s fingers clenched on the steering wheel. “He must have been so scared, and he tried so hard! And it was pretty good for while, but now…” He turned his head to Douglas. “Douglas, you have to do something, please! I don’t think he’s doing well. I’ll give you anything, just - can you?”

Not even Douglas Richardson was bastard enough to wrangle a deal from a situation like this, especially not when Arthur turned the power of his brown contacts like a forlorn puppy's upon him. “Yes, I think I can. No favour required this once: I'll do it pro bono. You have my promise I’ll do my best to sort Martin out - possibly with the help of you and your mother.”

“Oh, brilliant! Like, with group hugs?” Arthur beamed.

Douglas had to grin at the idea. “Something like that, though I can only imagine your mother’s face.”

“Thank you, Douglas!” Arthur exhaled a relieved breath. “I’m so glad.” They drove in silence a few moments more before Arthur broke it again. “Skip’s pretty brave, isn’t he?”

“That he is,” Douglas agreed.

 

 

Though he’d said it as a joke, Douglas did in fact purchase some fresh fruit and a box of ginger snaps. When Martin answered the door, rumpled and blinking exhaustion-shadowed eyes up at him in confusion, he thrust the carrier bag at him. “Here. Simultaneous housewarming and convalescent gift.”

Martin looked at the bag and back up at Douglas, brows knitted. “Um. Thank you?” Douglas stood waiting until Martin came back himself. “Would you like to come inside?”

Exactly what he’d been hoping for, though if Martin hadn’t invited him in, Douglas would have found some other devious way to inveigle himself across the threshold. “Thank you.” He entered, placing his second bag by the door and shrugging out of his jacket.

Inside, Martin’s flat was almost as small as his own, the furniture clearly secondhand, but it had many more personal touches. As Martin hung his jacket and unpacked the bag with pleased comments about the grapes and kiwis, Douglas found himself drifting to a bookcase. It was entirely Martin-ish - popular books ranging from fiction to biographies of famous pilots and several models of aeroplanes of varying pedigrees. He picked up a Spitfire, noting the less-than-perfect paintwork. “Rather nicely done,” he lied.

“That? Oh, that’s one of the first ones I did,” Martin said, coming up to stand next to him. “Well, I say I did it - my dad helped with the glueing but I did the painting. As you can probably tell. I was only six.” He shrugged diffidently.

“Only six? Good job,” Douglas said and relinquished the model back to Martin. He watched as Martin blew a speck of dust from it and placed it with care back on the shelf, the plane's tiny prop revolving.

“I’ve always wanted to be a pilot,” Martin said. His smile was tired. “The only thing I’ve ever wanted, in fact.”

“I hate to point out the obvious, but you are one now,” Douglas said.

“Yes, well, I think you’ve twitted me few times about how many times it took me to get my licence, so you know it wasn’t easy,” Martin said. “Still.” He gestured Douglas to make himself comfortable on the sofa. Douglas sat with care on the ancient thing, praying that an errant spring wouldn’t jump up and puncture his bottom, but it only wheezed gently under his weight. Martin perched himself on the coffee table and clasped his hands. “As touched as I am by your personal visit, Douglas… no really, I actually appreciate it, I don’t have that many people dropping by - anyway.” His grey eyes scanned Douglas’ face. “Why are you here, really?”

And here it was - the point of his visit. Douglas made a wry face. “Well. A friendly visit, as you say. We are friends of a sort, aren’t we?” At Martin’s look of surprise, he went on. “Yes, I know, ridiculous, a great sky-god lowering himself to befriend a mere mortal stripling such as yourself. We did start off on the wrong foot, I know. But we’ve progressed since then, and whatever you are, Martin, you’re not just an acquaintance. To me, at least. As surprising as it is to me, I do actually consider you… a friend.” He shrugged. “Not like I have that many dropping by my own place, you know.”

“Oh. Right, yes.” Martin’s smile was tentative and sweet. “I’m glad. I… yes, Me too. Friends, I mean.” The smile quirked into a smirk. “And again, I appreciate it. It’s not like you to make such a declaration. I find myself overwhelmed, Mr Richardson.”

Douglas’ laugh was sudden. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Martin grinned back. “I won’t.” Their smiles faded. Douglas cleared his throat.

“Well, your surmise is correct - I didn’t drop by just to declare us as something more than colleagues. It is pertaining to work, to be honest. Your performance recently, to be exact.”

Martin stiffened. He drummed his fingers once on the table. “God. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. I know I’ve been… It’s just a personal thing, I don’t mean to be so, so… unprofessional.”

Douglas cocked his head. “When you say unprofessional, what do you mean? You do your paperwork, you fly G-ERTI with all due skill required for the task. What else is there?”

“You know! I - I… ever since the, the attack…” Martin gulped. “It’s been hard to, to focus.”

“Distractions. Yes.” Douglas nodded. “I did notice. When you stopped responding for fifteen full minutes the last flight, I couldn’t help but notice. As did Carolyn and Arthur. What happened, if I may ask?”

Martin jiggled a leg. “It’s stupid. It was… It was evening, it was dark out. And, and out of the corner of my eye, you -” He looked at the carpet. “Your reflection. The window was black and your reflection was white. You looked… dead. I know it sounds stupid. It _is_ stupid. And unprofessional.”

“And dangerous,” Douglas said. Martin jerked his head up, mouth opening but Douglas leaned forward, elbows on his knees, holding Martin’s gaze. “You know it is, Martin. And you know that’s not the only problem.”

“I’ll take care of it, I did it before!” Martin protested. “You know I wouldn’t do anything to endanger passengers or crew!”

Douglas searched Martin’s face. Martin looked unhappy and… yes, there was the press of lips. Stubborn. He sighed inwardly. He hadn’t wanted to do this, but if Martin was going to be resistant… He summoned his most sincere face and lied. “Carolyn wants you to go in for a psychiatric evaluation.”

“No! No, she can’t, I won’t!” Martin leapt up as if shocked. “I know I haven’t been doing well lately, but that’s not fair! I… I know I should have done better when, when that… when things started getting out of control, I should have tased her right away, but - but -”

“But you froze up,” Douglas supplied. “Arthur did tell us. I don’t blame you, Martin, not with… well, knowing what I do about your history.” He didn’t offer any sympathy or express the pity and understanding he felt on Martin’s behalf - now was not the time.

Martin was pacing with frantic energy. “That shouldn’t matter! I _knew_ what to do, I just…” He stopped, hands wavering in an aborted gesture. “Douglas, please, don’t let her force me to take an evaluation. I’ll fail, I’m sure I’ll fail, and then…”

Douglas leaned back. “You wouldn’t be able to fly.” He looked around the room at the models and books and all its mementos, reflecting back upon just one thing. Flying meant _everything_ to Martin, it seemed.

“Yes,” Martin whispered.

“For what it’s worth, I doubt you would fail a psychiatric evaluation,” Douglas offered. “A certain obsessiveness with flying and your eternal flight ops aside, you’re fairly normal. The doctors would no doubt take your circumstances into consideration. It’s perfectly natural for you to exhibit excessive cautionary behaviour when working with PDSers. Lapses like the other day -”

“Could mean that I might fail in my duty as a captain,” Martin interrupted, miserable.

Douglas considered him. Just a touch more pressure needed to be applied, and then the really difficult part would be upon him. “Then - if flying means that much to you, something needs to be done. No,” he said, holding up a hand. “Not by having you submit to a formal evaluation. But you need to take steps yourself, and I don’t mean by just sweeping your problems under a rug and hoping they goes away. I think it’s evident that tactic isn't going to be as much help you pretend to think, Martin.”

“Well, what then?” Martin sat back on the coffee table.

Douglas smiled. “I have a bargain for you.”

“If it’s anything like your bets, I probably shouldn’t take it,” Martin said with a trace of dry humour.

“Oh, it’s an offer you can’t refuse, if you care about flying at all. It’s this - you are going to get help - actual, professional help so Carolyn won’t need to send you to any licence-stealing shrinks.”

Martin shook his head. “Well, that’s nice. Since I’m backed into a corner anyway -”

“I said it would be a bargain,” Douglas said. “And it also involves a gift, from me to you. I’m going to help you.”

“Why, Douglas?” Martin glared. “Is this some kind of, of twisted pity for your poor, messed-up captain? Because if it is, I don’t want it.”

Douglas returned the glare. “It’s not pity. If I thought you needed help when we first met, it was because I thought you were a terrified bigot due for a trip to the emergency room to have the stick removed from your arse.”

Martin’s mouth fell open. “You - you…”

“I still think you’re still too stiff for your own good. But bit by bit, you’ve been able to change. You proved me wrong.”

Martin’s mouth closed with a snap. “Oh. Uh. Thanks for that. I think.” He turned his face away. “You weren’t wrong. I was… unfair to you. And PDSers.”

“And scared of us.” Douglas waited for Martin to look up again. “You still are.”

“I’m not! I work with you, don’t I?” The bravado was as immediate as it was false. Douglas nodded in understanding.

“I’m not saying you haven’t come a long way.” Douglas hesitated. “And… now I know how far, I’m amazed. You’re a brave man, Martin.”

Martin pushed the admiration away with a gesture. “I’m _not_. You didn’t see me that day in Suffolk. I panicked. It was… “ He drew in a shaky breath. “It was like a nightmare, having it happen all over again. It wasn’t _her,_ it was my… him. And I froze. I couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t follow the regulations. Me.” He punctuated the confession with a bitter snort.

“Well, bugger the regulations, then,” Douglas said, dropping his voice. “Because they’re only guidelines and they aren’t going to cover every contingency. Besides, I’d like the contest your denial of bravery. Tell me, Martin, when that rabid had Arthur by the throat, what was going through your mind?”

“I don’t know. I just reacted! She was trying to kill him, I couldn't just stand there!"

“So you leapt in, putting your own life in danger to pull him away. And it never occurred to you he wasn’t in any real danger?” Douglas asked. “Being dead already?”

“No. No, of course not. I just did it. Stupid, maybe. But… it was _Arthur_.”

“And Arthur is a Partially Deceased Syndrome sufferer. But you tried to save his life.”

Martin’s spread his hands. “I wasn't thinking about that at the time! And Arthur… Arthur and you - you’re friends."

“And we're not alive. _And_ in unguarded moments, you’re afraid of us.” Douglas lifted a hand to forestall the inevitable protest. “You _are_. You’ve done well, all things considered. But you cover it up the way I spackle on cover-up everyday to hide what’s beneath. When that rabid attacked you, you had a severe flashback. You wouldn’t even let Arthur near because he looked like, well - what he is. What I am.”

Martin’s head drooped. Douglas felt a twist of guilt for having to push him but it had to be done. That it was also self-serving only helped a little. “In short, my captain, you have post-traumatic stress disorder and a case of the fear. But Martin - you’re not the only one with problems.” His voice became self-deprecating and Martin’s head came up. “So you need help. As do I - god knows I’ve been avoiding my own problems. It dents my massive manly pride. But this is the bargain. If you can be that brave, face your fears and get the help you so desperately need, than so can I.”

Martin turned his face away. “I wish you’d stop saying I’m brave.”

“Oh, Martin.” Douglas sighed. “Listen. Do you remember once you asked why I don’t see my daughter anymore?”

Surprised at the change in topic, Martin nodded. A look of apprehension spread over his face. “She’s…. she didn’t die, did she?” he whispered. “During the Pale Wars?”

Douglas shook his head. “She’s fine, as far as I know. Thank goodness. But I haven’t been in touch since I’ve come back. Why do you think that is?”

Martin’s brow furrowed. “Your ex-wife? She’s blocking you from using your custody rights because you’re… what you are?”

Douglas barked a laugh. “Penelope and I don’t get on, but oddly that’s one thing she wouldn’t do, PDS or no. She’s always been more than fair with me concerning Olivia.”

“Then - she does know you’ve Risen, your daughter?”

Douglas dropped his chin in a nod. “Yes. When I was due to be released, the Centre asked me which of my emergency contacts would be part of my support network, help sort out new living arrangements, et cetera. I told them my third wife would help me, which, bless Helena’s kind soul, she did. All of my former spouses were informed of my condition, to my annoyance. Privacy and confidentiality are tossed out the window when it comes to dead people, it seems.”

“Then… then why, Douglas?” Martin was flushing with annoyance. “That’s… I still don’t think that’s right, you should see her! I’m sorry but she’s your only daughter! She needs to know her dad, no, no matter what you are!”

Douglas’ laugh was dry. “I’m glad your own reunion with your father has turned out so well that you can expound that point of view. It’s not that easy, as you know.” His hand was trembling and he gripped his thigh to stop it.

“Why? Do you think she’s going to be afraid of you?” Martin bit his lip at his slip.

“I really have no idea. For all I know, she feels just the same as you do.”

“I’m not - I don’t mean to -”

Douglas gave him a tired smile. “Please don’t deny it, captain. You’ve done wonders coping with it. I know exposure to my inestimable self helps. And who in their right mind would ever be afraid of Arthur, either living or dead?”

Martin chewed his lip. “Common sense says there’s no reason to be.”

“Common sense has nothing to do with this,” Douglas pointed out.

“But you - you guys have been great; I really like working with you now! You especially, I can’t believe now how tolerant you’ve been - I’m sure you must have wanted to pitch me off the plane a few times at first.”

“Who says I still don’t? You can be an officious twit on occasion.”

Martin wrinkled his nose at that. “My point is, you take your doses everyday, just like you're supposed to. I know you’re not going to… to go rabid and attack me.”

“There’s the thing,” Douglas said. “Common sense says I won’t. Your hindbrain, though… it says I might. And I _have_ attacked people.”

Martin gulped but lifted his chin. “‘What you did in your untreated state -’”

Douglas cut him off with a chopping motion. “Fuck that.” Martin gaped at his unwonted vulgarity. “I _know._ You do know about Neurotriptyline, don’t you? How the miracle drug triggers flashbacks to things done in our ‘untreated state’? I know what I did. Not everything - I expect I’ll be getting more uncomfortable memories for some time to come. But what comes back to me, over and over, is the worst one. The first one.”

“My dad told me about the memories.” Martin’s face was taut. He licked his lips and spoke, very hesitant. “What… what happened, Douglas?”

Douglas shook his head once. “No. You don’t need any more nightmares.”

“But - but maybe you need fewer,” Martin said with startling perception.. “It’s okay. You’re right - I, I’m… sometimes, I’m afraid of you. But I don’t think your story is going to make it any worse, really.”

Douglas shook his head again, surprised again at Martin’s depth of strength, his willingness to take on and endure even Douglas’ tale of woe. Moreover, if Martin was ever going to be convinced to get help, Douglas had to show him he wasn’t alone.

“There… there was a girl.” At Martin’s horrified look he went on quickly. “No, it wasn’t my daughter - if it had been, you wouldn’t be talking to this ex-sky god right now, I couldn’t have lived with that.” He clasped his hands, looked down at them. “God knows what she was doing out alone. Walking home from a friend’s house or something. I’d love to get my hands on whoever let her out unaccompanied, though I imagine they’re suffering enough already. I…”

He remembered the coat, vivid in the dark, the girl’s dark plait swaying against red nylon. The blood hadn't shown on the plait, though it had beaded and trickled over the nylon afterwards. He felt the imaginary roughness of a stone in his hand and swallowed, throat clicking.

“I killed her, Martin. A little girl. A child. Someone’s daughter, could very well have been my own, and I’d never have known until the sodding drug returned my memory.” He looked up and Martin shrank from his sudden fierceness. “And it’s not right. Right now, today, if I went out and killed someone in my so-called ‘treated’ state, I’d be sent down as a murderer. But I have this _syndrome_ , and suddenly I’m supposed to pretend it’s all right?”

Martin shook his head, but he tried to help, bless him. “That - that’s not who you are. You’re not a murderer.”

Douglas’ laugh was mirthless. “All the platitudes in the world aren’t going to make me feel less of one, Martin. And maybe some PDSers are happy and grateful to have second lease on life - but not me. I’m here, and Olivia’s still alive and that little girl… isn’t. She’s not going to have any second chances, Martin, and I did that.”

Martin’s face was pinched with concern. “You’re - are you afraid you’d hurt Olivia somehow? You’d never. Is that it, you don’t trust yourself around her?”

Douglas abruptly felt all of his fifty-odd living and dead years weighing him down. “I know I wouldn’t. It’s not that simple.” Olivia’s life, compared to his own condition, was such a fragile thing and he was so grateful that she existed. And he was a bastard to be happy his daughter lived when he’d killed someone else’s. But he’d been a selfish bastard all his life, he saw with the clarity of hindsight. He’d ruined so much before he died with arrogance and selfishness and lies. Lying to himself, most of all. Three marriages, an abandoned medical career, the drink, and his own ridiculous sabotage of his career with smuggling, and for what? It was stupid to regret the loss of such a life, and yet that’s what he’d been doing. Add that to his crippling guilt and it was a wonder he got out of bed at all. But there was one last thing he had to say.

He struggled to put it into words, praying that Martin wouldn’t flee, knowing that he should. Douglas wouldn’t blame him. “The worst part - no, unbelievably, murdering little girls wasn’t the worst part, Martin. The worst part, Martin, is that I remember how it felt. The hunger. Annoyance when she fought me, the brave little hopeless thing. And the satiation, afterwards. The primitive _pleasure_ I had. _God._ ” He pressed a hand to his brow, covering his eyes. “You think having Partially Deceased Syndrome is the worst thing that can happen to you? It’s not. It’s living with what you did. It’s guilt. It’s depression. And if I could cut that memory out of my head without lobotomising myself, I’d do it.”

He heard Martin’s intake of breath and chanced looking at him. Martin’s eyes were huge, his hands gripping his knees with white knuckles but he wasn’t running away. Douglas gave him the ghost of a smile for it. “So, I understand you, Martin. More than you ever guessed. You get nightmares. I live them them every dose.”

“I’m so sorry, Douglas,” Martin said. “I never knew it was that bad. I’m sorry.”

“How could you know? It's not something I'd share with just anyone.” Douglas blew out a breath. “And that’s about it, really. Olivia’s better off without me in her life.”

“She’s not better off,” Martin objected. “You said she knows you’re alive. She must be really hurt, wondering why you won’t contact her. Don’t you want to see her?”

“I’m a sorry reminder of what her dad used to be. Who needs a sad old zombie in their life anyway?”

“She does! You’re…” Martin made a frustrated noise. “You told me once that you didn’t see her enough after your divorce. And, and I get that you feel guilty and I know how hard it is when you’re depressed, I was depressed ages after my dad… well, my mom didn’t want to believe me, so you can imagine how horrible that was. But you‘ve got another chance! You can be her dad again, Douglas, you have to!”

Douglas looked away from Martin’s clear gaze.

“You’re afraid.” Martin’s voice was wondering. “You don’t want her to see you like this.”

Douglas snorted. “Not even I want to see myself like this, most days, Martin, and that’s the problem. It’s not just a matter of vanity. I… don’t like myself very much. And I definitely don’t want to ever look at my daughter and remember even a ghost of the pleasure I felt killing that child cross my mind.”

“Oh.”

“But… my bargain for you.” Douglas’ smile felt stiff. “I’ll do it. I’ll take my second chance and contact her, if you get help for yourself.”

“Oh,” Martin repeated, then, “Oh! No. No, that’s not going to work.”

“Pardon?” Part of Douglas was irritated at the stubborn set of Martin’s mouth. The other part merely wanted to laugh. “What now?”

“Just, just - if you actually want it to be a real second chance with your daughter, then, then - you get help too. And that way, you won’t be a sad old zombie when you meet her. So.” Martin crossed his arms over his chest. “I get therapy, you do too.”

“Martin,” Douglas said. “This isn’t like wagering for a cheese tray.”

“I don’t care! Anyway, it’s much more important!”

“More important than cheese?” Douglas lifted a brow but was inwardly relieved by Martin’s demand. He had no more excuses, no more self-deception to hide behind. Martin knew the worst, and Martin was too damned stubborn to let Douglas get away with avoiding his own issues any longer. He’d known when he started this conversation that it would lead to this. It was... it was a relief.

And it was also annoying that Arthur's brand of self-help worked - Douglas did feel better for having told his story. Heaving a mock sigh of resignation, he threw up his hands. “And I suppose Arthur will want therapy too, when he hears about this. And we’ll have a happy little group.”

“And my dad could come!”

“And Carolyn will terrify everyone past trauma into mental well-being.”

They both laughed at the thought, though it was as much a release of tension as it was humour.

Martin’s mirth faded into a lopsided grin. He cocked his head. “So, what was the other thing? You said you had a gift for me?”

“Ah.” Douglas got up and fetched a small black case from the bag he’d left at the door. He held it out to Martin. “This is it. Here.”

Martin took it, running fingers over the plastic latches and casting a curious glance up at Douglas. He opened and it and stilled. “What? It’s… it’s your injector. Douglas, no.”

Douglas perched on the arm of the sofa. “And why not? You see, I have a theory about you - well, several, to be honest. And I think having this will do you a world of good.”

Martin was shaking his head. “No, I don’t think so. It’s yours. How are you going to take your doses?”

Douglas snorted. “I already picked up a second one. Try another excuse, Martin.”

“Why?” Martin’s mouth was parted, brows furrowed in confusion.

“Hm. There’s the thing, or one of them, at least.” Douglas crossed his arms and regarded Martin with tilted head. “Remember how you used to tighten up enough to dent the yoke with your grip whenever Carolyn locked the flight deck door? The way you would surreptitiously finger your taser - no, don’t worry, I’m not offended by it anymore. Much. My point is that you settled down when you focussed on your flying - when you were in control. But - I’m the one element in that flight deck that’s not within your control. So I’m giving you this, because I can.” He couldn’t help the wry smile. “Control. You have it, captain.”

“I can’t." Martin lifted hands as if he could physically push Douglas' reasoning away. "Douglas, it’s not fair to you!”

Douglas chuckled. “Good man, but predictable. You do understand I could never have gifted you with my injector unless I’d known how much you’d protest? Nothing about this is fair, Martin. Allow me to demonstrate.”

He lifted both hands and shot them out as if he were a magician about to perform a trick. “Nothing up my sleeve. Or is there?” He flicked open a cuff button and began to roll back his sleeve, exposing white skin with traceries of dark veins scrolling beneath. Martin’s breath quickened but he said nothing. Douglas shot a glance at him - no, Martin was holding fast, though his hands were gripping the case too tight. He proceeding to roll up the other sleeve, taking his time and doing it neatly. He blinked at Martin, wincing dramatically. “Damned contacts. They bother me when I leave them in too long, you know.” He hated doing this without a mirror. He pinched the lens, sliding it from one eye. When he reached for the second Martin reacted at last, grabbing his wrist, the case clattering to the floor.

“Don’t!” The pressure of his fingers was dimpling Douglas’ skin. Martin looked at where he gripped Douglas and paled, letting him go as if he’d been scorched. “S-sorry. Sorry. But… please don’t.”

“As the captain wishes.” Douglas looked at Martin steadily. “This is what I am. It hasn’t slipped my notice that all your adverse reactions are linked to when PDS sufferers are in their natural state - Arthur losing his contacts, Dirk’s injuries, white skin.”

Martin’s head was bowed. “Yes. I know. Yes, you’re right. I’m sorry, it’s just…”

“Bad memories relating to the most terrifying night of your life? I know.” Douglas’ voice gentle. He made a come-along gesture with his fingers within Martin's field of vision, indicating he should look up. “Right. Look me in the eyes, Martin Crieff. Tell me you wouldn’t feel better if you knew you were the one that had administered the injection - the thing that makes me a PDS _sufferer_ and keeps me from being a rabid. It’s not fair, what happened to either of us. But if that’s what it takes to make you more comfortable, I’m willing.” And he meant it. Truth be told, to his own surprise he knew he’d rather have the shots from Martin than any underqualified med tech.

It took a few tries, Martin’s eyes flicking away several times before he took a deep breath and held Douglas’ odd-eyed gaze. He exhaled shakily and clutched trembling hands on the table's edge. “Oh god. God, that’s weird. I know it’s you, but - it’s…” He lowered his eyes. “You’re right. Okay. I - I’ll do it. Thank you.”

“I don’t expect you to do it forever, mind,” Douglas chided. He held open his lids and popped the lens back in. “Ugh, these things are such a pain.” He blinked once or twice and refocused on Martin, who was peeking back up into his face. “Just as long as you need to.”

“And as long as you want me to,” Martin said with another flash of the insight he sometimes displayed. Douglas grinned.

“Deal.” Martin held out his hand and after a brief pause Douglas took it. They shook. Martin didn’t release his hand immediately. Instead, he turned it over, loosening his grip, looking at Douglas’ palm. Douglas never bothered with cover-up there - it never clung and got on everything he touched. The skin was ghostly. Douglas kept his hand relaxed as Martin turned his hand over again, fingers trembling.

“Your nails…”

“Old wounds under the nail bed. Splinters,” Douglas said.

“Oh god.” Martin rubbed a thumb across the makeup, smearing it. “God, this stuff is _thick_.”

“It has to be,” Douglas agreed. “If I could feel it, I’d hate it more. I looked like Dame Edna putting on slap with a hangover the first few times.”

Martin’s giggle was slightly hysterical but genuine. He released Douglas’ hand. Douglas missed that simple human touch, even if he didn’t have the ability to feel it anymore. Whimsically he imagined something like the sensation of warmth beyond the pressure of Martin’s fingers. Martin gave him a crooked smile.

“That… that was all right.”

“Brave lad,” Douglas approved.

“I’m not, really. But I’ll try.”

“That makes two of us, then,” Douglas said. He clapped his hands. “But first things first! Pick up that case. I’m going to teach you how to administer Neurotriptyline _properly_ , understand? I have medical school training and I am certain I’m more qualified than the dolts that do it now at the airports. When I’ve finished with you, you’re going to be able to show _them_ how it’s done, understood?”

Martin passed him the case. “Aye aye, first officer. How long ago was that training of yours, by the way?”

“Oh,” Douglas lamented. “How swiftly the worm turns.” But he found himself grinning at the return of Martin’s cheek. “For today, we’ll just do a run-through on how it works, since I’ve already taken my dose this morning.” He pulled out the injector and passed it to Martin. Martin took it, fascinated eyes running over the gleaming metal, not even noticing that Douglas hadn’t rolled his sleeves back over his bare arms. Distraction first and then, with time, acclimatisation, slow and steady, Douglas thought. “So, first you check that the cartridge here still has gas in it…”

Together they bent over the case.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go, folks!


	11. The Courage of Starting Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geoff finally gets to meet his son's co-workers. Martin gets the help he needs. In Boston, Arthur finds he definitely has a friend in Martin, and it's (mostly) brilliant! Carolyn makes a death-threat, and Douglas finally relates the story of the terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day he died.
> 
> Herein are word games, over-eager security guards, people taking the mickey out of others, and happy endings, Cabin Pressure-style.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've been along for the ride this far, thank you!
> 
> I added a piece of fanart to chapter 1, if that's something that interests you. It's about mid-chapter, Arthur putting in his new contacts.

**June 2013, Wokingham**

“Mom, Dad, this is Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, my boss and her son, Arthur. And this is Douglas Richardson, my first officer.” Martin was both nervous and proud as Geoff stepped forward to shake hands. The oven buzzer went and Wendy started.

“Oh, the roast! Excuse me. It’s lovely to meet you,” she said and hurried to the kitchen.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you all at last, Martin’s told me so much about you,” Geoff said.

“Likewise,” Douglas said. He cast Martin a mischievous glance. “All good, I trust.”

“Well, there’s been a few choice stories,” Geoff began.

“Dad!”

“But I want to hear about the apple juggling!” Geoff said, grinning at his son’s discomfiture. “Your specialty, I hear, Arthur.”

“Yeah!” Arthur said. “It’s not that hard, really. You only need one apple. But it’s really relaxing and it makes me happy! Shall I show you?”

“Not now, Arthur,” Carolyn said at the same time Geoff said, “Why not? We’ll go out back, you, Douglas and I, and you show me how it’s done. We can all use feeling happy at times.”

Douglas chuckled at Arthur’s wide grin. Geoff called into the kitchen. “Wendy? I’m just going to take these fine fellows into the back yard. You won’t mind sparing a few apples, will you?”

Wendy appeared, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “Oh, no, go ahead and help yourselves! You boys have a nice time. Martin, would you help set the table? Carolyn, I’ll show you where to sit.”

Douglas lifted a brow. Geoff explained, “Oh, Wendy doesn’t hold with any foolishness about us PDS folk sitting around pretending to eat. We’ll come in and have a good long chat over dessert and coffee.”

“Wendy is clearly very sensible,” Douglas commented. “Come on, young Shappey. Let’s go juggle apples and talk sports and power tools with Geoff.”

Martin choked at this but Arthur perked up. “Power tools? Brilliant. Mum never lets me play with them.”

“That’s because you’re supposed to _use_ them, not play with them,” Carolyn called from the adjoining room. “They’re not toys. Do you remember the leaf blower and air mattress incident? I for one shall never forget it.”

“Aw, Mum!” But Arthur went happily enough when Geoff offered to set him up with safety goggles, some plywood and a jigsaw. Douglas followed with a broad grin and Martin shook his head at the strange anomaly that was his life.

Over dessert, Caitlin breezed in. “Sorry I’m late, Mum, Dad! Are these all your work mates, Martin? Hi, everyone, I’m Caitlin, the sis.”

“Hello, love,” Wendy said over the general greetings. “Would you like some roast? I’ve a plate set aside.”

“Dessert first, I think.” Caitlin grinned at her and got a bowl, serving herself a hefty scoop of trifle. “Mm, lovely. How meals should always go, I think - sweet first and savoury after. If I have room for it.”

“I think so too!” Arthur agreed. Carolyn and Wendy exchanged glances over the vagaries of children.

“At least you’re here,” Martin muttered. “Where’s Simon? I mean, I told him we’d have guests. Couldn’t he make the effort just this once?”

Douglas cocked his head. “Your younger brother?”

“Yup, the youngest of us sibs,” Caitlin said, waving her spoon. “Married, proud possessor of two sprogs, and a member of council. In _Dorking_ , mind.” Her tone said everything there was to know about Dorking.

“It’s an important job,” Wendy protested mildly.

“So important that he’s too busy to come by? Probably spending all his time trying to suck his way up the political stepladder by pretending he doesn’t have a dad with PDS,” Martin couldn’t help saying.

Caitlin felt the same by the look on her face but shrugged. “Pretty sure it’s Donna. His wife,” she explained to all and sundry. “Her family doesn’t have any PDS sufferers and they’re all a bit… extreme on the matter.” She made a face. “I think he’s being a fathead, myself.”

“Martin, Caitlin,” Wendy admonished, darting a look at their guests. “You shouldn’t talk about Simon like that.”

“Like what?” Martin wanted to know, tired of her constant evasions about Simon’s self-centredness. “Like he can’t be bothered with you or Dad, now that Dad’s got a, a condition? It’s been, what? Three months since Dad came back? Has he even come here once?”

Arthur was watching the exchange with his mouth open. Douglas’ eyes travelled back and forth between the combatants while Carolyn occupied herself with scraping the last of the cream from her bowl. Geoff had the trace of a frown creasing his forehead.

“Martin!” Wendy’s tone was placatory. “I’m sure it’s not like that. Simon is very busy, what with the government’s concerns with PDS, and then there’s his family -”

To Martin’s surprise, Geoff stopped her. “No, Wendy, he’s right. You know I love Simon, but you have to admit - the boy’s always had his head up his arse.” Carolyn covered her choking by pressing a napkin to her mouth. Likewise, Douglas pressed a knuckle hard against his lips but his eyes danced. Geoff went on, “I know he’s the youngest and the apple of your eye, but he’s not a baby anymore. You need to stop making excuses for him.”

Wendy sighed. “I do wish -”

“I know.” Geoff’s smile was pained. “He’ll come ‘round, or he won’t. When the chips came down, Caitlin and Martin were there for their old dad. Especially you, Martin.” His eyes spoke volumes. “You’re a good lad.”

Martin swallowed. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Hey, what about me?” Caitlin said jokingly. “You know Martin and I are old rivals. No playing favourites!”

Geoff chuckled at the sally. “You’re my staunch lass, steady as a rock.”

“True, true,” Caitlin nodded. “Martin always did have his head in the clouds.”

“Hey!” Martin protested.

“Literally these days,” Carolyn contributed.

“Yeah!” Arthur said.

“This isn’t fair,” Martin complained. “If you’re all going to gang up on me, I’ll just have to console myself with the last of the trifle.” He snagged the bowl before Caitlin beat him to it. “Ha!”

“Children,” Wendy reproved, but she was smiling. “You should ask guests if they want more first.”

“Oh, no, let them go at it,” Douglas suggested as Caitlin threatened Martin with a spoon. “I’m quite enjoying seeing the true Martin in his native habitat.”

 

**June 2013**

It’s dark, the shapes of trees and hedgerows darker shapes against the night sky. Martin looks back at his van, parked on the grass of the roadside verge, before starting down the road. A cool breeze touches his face and he shivers. The crackle of dry branches makes him stop, turning in place. “Hello?” There’s nothing. He picks up the pace. Maybe he should go back to his van. Can he do that? Is it possible?

A low growl has him spinning around. A dark silhouette is moving toward him with a slow, dragging pace. He clenches his hands and waits. The skin is of the thing is pale and he can see the gleam of white irises within deep sockets. “It’s not real.” The scent of mildew assaults his nostrils and he chokes. “I’ve been here already, I survived this. I’m still here, still here,” he chants to himself. His heart rate speeds up in spite of his mantra. “It’s okay. I survived this.” He takes a shaky breath, breathes out slowly. The surroundings begin to fade, the figure dissolving in a pixelated blur.

 

Martin pulled off the virtual reality head rig with hands that shook slightly and sagged back in his seat. “Ugh,” he said in perfect eloquence. His shirt was sticking to him with sweat and cooling quickly.

The doctor monitoring the session smiled, her eyes on the computer readings. “Doing much better, Martin. You’re coming along quite nicely with the graduated exposure approach.”

“I’m glad we took it,” Martin says. He pushed away the armature of the machine that delivered breezes and scent during the simulation and leaned forward, bracing elbows on his knees. “God. I never liked the smell of mildewed clothing. Is it weird that I’m almost getting used to it?”

“Part of the process, reducing potential triggers.”

“That was new, though - the eyes. You added that in.” Martin shivered and plucked at his shirt. “Scary.”

The doctor looked up. “Considering your more recent trauma and your work environment, I thought you ought to get used to that sooner rather than later.”

“Yeah,” Martin agreed. “I don’t want to keep freaking out over seeing PDSers in their natural state. It’s… it’s what they are. Can’t change it, so it’s not fair to them.”

“Them?” She tilted her head. “Your coworkers?”

“Douglas and Arthur, sure. And the clients. And… and the untreated ones.” Martin shrugged. “All of them.”

The doctor nodded in approval. “You _are_ coming along,” she said.

 

 

**Fitton**

Douglas wiped the last of the cover-up from the tricky spot under his ear and dropped the tissue in the bin with a grunt. He regarded his reflection, glum. With his brown contacts still in, he looked positively vampiric. In the other room, his mobile rang and he scowled. Damn it, he rarely got phone calls at this hour - it could only be one person. Irritated, he stalked in, snatched it up and stabbed the connect button.

“Carolyn, I’m not available for another last minute flight, I don’t care what incentive you offer me! You’ve worked Martin and me like slaves for the last six days and it’s my day off, so -”

“Daddy?” The voice on the other end was hesitant. “Is that - is that you?”

“Olivia?” Douglas dropped abruptly into a kitchen chair. “Yes. Yes, it’s me.”

“Daddy,” Olivia said in obvious relief and Douglas covered his mouth, afraid of what noise might escape him. “I got your email and I just had to call. It's been so long! How… how are you?”

It took Douglas a few moments before he collected himself enough to manage, “All the better for hearing your voice, darling.”

 

**August, 2013, Boston, en route from Toronto to London**

“Sir, I need you to come with me to a separate screening room.” Arthur fidgeted under the large American security officer’s stare. He wished Douglas was here with him - he didn’t like doing the screenings without him. Mum and Douglas were already through the barrier with the paperwork for his and Douglas’ bottles of Neurotriptyline and waiting for them impatiently on the other side.

“Sure. Um. D’you want me to bring my bag?”

“No, sir, we’ll be looking through it. Leave it on the table there.”

“Oh, come on,” Martin said. “Do you really think he’s got some kind of weapon that will inflict Partially Deceased Syndrome on helpless Americans?”

“Sir.” The man turned to him. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that pawing through his bag while he’s not here is… is just not on,” Martin said. “Carry-on bags are supposed to be screened in the presence of their owners!” Arthur blinked at Martin. Gosh, Skip really did know all the rules! Martin went on, “I can tell you exactly what dangerous items he’s got in there - about ten bags of those horrible Hershey’s kisses, a volume of some weird Japanese comic called One Piece and a tube of mousse make-up!”

“If the tube is larger than three point five ounces, we have to confiscate it.”

Martin rolled his eyes at the man’s zealotry and Arthur bit his lip. It was great of Skip to stand up to this man, but Arthur wasn’t sure it was the time for it. He could see his mum through the plexiglass, mouthing _What’s going on?_ at him. He shrugged and gestured to Martin. He could almost hear her exasperated sigh. He definitely saw her cover her face with her palm.

The security man glared at Martin. “And what, may I ask, is wrong with Hershey’s kisses?”

“Nothing, besides tasting like cheesy chocolate vomit,” Martin said. “Why do Americans like them so much?”

“I’m afraid I don’t care for your assertion, sir,” the man growled.

“But by all means, take them if you like them!” Martin said. “Confiscate the whole lot. Eat them in front of him! It’s not like you need to treat him with respect, do you? You’re the almighty TSA, and Arthur’s just a Partially Deceased, but I - I’m his captain! And his friend. And I’m telling you, if you think Arthur’s some kind of threat, you are seriously wide of the mark!”

“Um, Skip…” Arthur began. He didn’t actually want the man to eat his chocolates, those were souvenirs for friends! But he kind of wanted to give Skip a hug for saying he was Arthur’s friend. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll just go and get checked -”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Martin said, but he was winding down. “It’s wrong, the way they treat you like, like some kind of bio-terrorist. It’s prejudice, plain and simple.”

“Right.” The man picked up the clipboard, a dangerous glint in his eye. “Crieff, Martin. Captain with MJN, specialty charter for PDS sufferers?”

“Yes, well spotted,” Martin said.

“And you’ve been in close proximity with undead since…?”

“November of last year.”

The man’s smile was thin. “I’m afraid we’ll need to you to go to Quarantine for a thorough check.”

“What?” Martin yelped. “What for?”

“New TSA regulations, sir. You’ve been exposed for over six months to Partially Deceased Syndrome sufferers, some of them untreated.” The man’s tone was mock virtuous. “We need to be certain of your health. Sir.”

“Are you _joking?_ ” It was kind of cool, Arthur thought, how Skip’s freckles disappeared when he got red like that. Martin went on, voice rising, “You do know you can’t _catch_ Partially Deceased Syndrome, don’t you? That in order for me to be one of them, I’d have to have died four years back? Would that suit you, getting to use the full weight of the TSA’s ridiculous iron hand on me? But only if it’s wearing a latex glove coated with _cooty_ spray!”

“Um, Skip.” Mum was making throat-cutting gestures at Arthur through the glass, but Martin was on a roll.

“Even if Arthur _bit_ you, you won’t catch deadness! God!”

“Have you ever been in a situation where an undead bit you or caused you to come in contact with any form of undead bodily liquids?” the security man said.

“Well, yes, and I don’t see how that’s any of your - _oof!_ ” The iron hand of the TSA descended on Martin in the form of an overly eager and annoyed agent.

“Sir, I’m afraid you definitely have to go to Quarantine now,” the man cheerfully boomed over Martin’s squawks. “Come along with me! Sir. You, too,” he added to Arthur.

Oh, dear. Arthur gave his mother a helpless look, scooped up his flight bag and followed the man as he frog-marched Martin away.

 

“Well,” Arthur said from his cot, staring into the darkness. “This is kind of fun. I mean, the last time Douglas and I did this, he was awfully grumpy and just went to sleep. But now Martin and Mum are with us! It’s like summer camp.” He sighed happily. “Can we sing a campfire song?”

“Best not. Your mother and Martin are both grumpy this time,” Douglas said from somewhere to his left.

“You’re not, are you?” Arthur asked.

“No,” Douglas said dryly. “I’m not. Rather pleased and amused that it’s not anything I did or am that landed us in quarantine quarters for twenty-four hours.”

“It’s not my fault,” Martin said. He sounded sulky. “That man was overbearing and officious and had an over-inflated sense of his own importance and -”

“Sounds like a certain captain I know,” Douglas remarked.

“Shut up!”

“Skip was kind of brilliant, though!” Arthur said. “Except maybe at the end. He was really standing up for us PDSers!”

“Thank you, Arthur.” Martin was mollified by this.

“As much as I appreciate your stalwart defense of my son, Martin,” Carolyn said from across the room. “I’ll ask you to refrain in the future when dealing with airport security. I’m too old to be spending my night in accommodations as lacking as these and if it happens again...” She shifted, the rickety cot groaning. “I’ll end you.”

There was a brief silence. Then Martin spoke up. “If you do, I’ll… I’ll come back and haunt you.”

Arthur snorted a giggle. “Well, that would be singular,” Douglas commented. “Dead Air, indeed. To infinity and beyond.” He chuckled over Carolyn’s grumble and Arthur grinned. He was about as happy as he’d ever been, being here with his friends and Mum. And yet… Something was missing.

“I find I’m not sleepy. Word game, anyone?” Douglas offered. “Movie titles with one letter removed. In Martin’s honour - _Fight Cub._ ”

“Hey!”

“ _Aging Bull_ ,” Carolyn supplied.

“That’s hurtful, Carolyn.”

“Who said I was dedicating it to you? Though if the shoe fits…”

“Martin?”

“Wait, wait, let me think. _Man of Stee_ … no, no.”

“Ma of Steel would be your inestimable mother, Arthur.”

“Douglas Richardson. I’m not sure whether that was a compliment or insult.”

“Why can’t it be both?”

“Oh, well done.”

“Oh, hush, both of you, I’m still thinking! Um, um… _Tar Trek into Darkness_?”

Arthur sighed, content. That - that was it. Now everything was perfect.

 

 

**Fitton**

Douglas started as Carolyn jabbed him with her elbow, and focussed back on what Arthur was saying. He was relating his death-story _again,_ and was so used to telling it that it came out inappropriately happy and entirely Arthur-esque.

“...and I was singing along to the radio, the Beatles, you know them? I guess everyone does. It was that one song, ooh, er, how does it go? ‘Do you still like me, will you still see me? No, I’m sixty three!’”

“Hell of a swan-song,” Douglas muttered to Carolyn. Her eyes crinkled up in amusement, before she converted it to a censorious glare.

“Shut up, shut up!” Martin hissed at him under his breath before clamping a hand over his mouth. Douglas’ lips twitched as he watched Martin try and draw deep breaths in his effort to not to laugh out loud. Martin had come a long way. Before he’d started his therapy, Douglas doubted he’d have even been able to stay in the room with him and Arthur when they were _sans_ their make-up. Now he was able to relax enough to laugh, and had even asked if they could help him out by not wearing cover-up to their sessions. They’d agreed, though both still retained their contacts. Douglas nodded at Martin and turned back to Arthur’s monologue.

“And there were these bright lights coming at us from my side of the car, and this HUGE crash, like a hundred cats tipping over bins, and things went quiet and dark, bit of a relief after that noise. And then I woke up all cranky and hungry, like I’d forgot my dinner and then I pushed hard and…”

Douglas widened his eyes and cast the therapist a beseeching look. Lisa Hodges, a plump middle-aged woman was obviously wavering between firmness and exasperation at how her session had been hijacked by Arthur’s babble. She took the hint and cleared her throat.

“Yes, thank you, Arthur! As it’s our first session, we only needed you to share the story of how you died. We’ll explore what came after and what you remember later, okay?”

Untroubled by the interruption, Arthur beamed at her. “Okay, Mrs Hodges!”

She paused. “You _can_ call me Lisa, you know.”

“Right-o, Mrs Hodges!”

Douglas managed to convert his bark of laughter into a coughing fit as Lisa looked quizzically at Carolyn, who only shook her head. He could practically hear the unspoken words. _Yes, he was always like this. No, really, it’s not brain damage. Just Arthur._

Martin had given up and was now openly grinning at Arthur’s story, the tragedy of it worn away by Arthur’s cheerful outlook. His voice was only a little strangled. “Th-thanks, Arthur. For sharing.”

Lisa looked at Douglas. “Now, Douglas. Since you’re the only other sufferer in our little group, would you mind telling us the story of your own death?”

Martin straightened up in his plastic seat, the smile dropping away.

Douglas cleared his throat. “Well, as I’m among friends, I suppose I can tell you the story of my demise. It’s less cheerful than Arthur’s, I’m afraid to say.”

Martin nodded, his curiosity giving way to sympathy.

“That’s okay, Douglas!” Arthur said. “It’s just like all those message boards for PDSers. You’ll feel loads better once you get it out, I bet.”

“Thank you, Arthur.” Douglas leaned forward, resting an elbow on a knee. “It happened while I was abroad. In Paris, a late flight. I was staying the night in a hotel. I’d got a call from my employer, Air England. They wanted to have me in for a meeting when I got back to London, a spot of trouble I’d landed in…”

Carolyn nodded, smug. “Smuggling,” she said in a none-too-quiet aside to Martin. Martin frowned at him.

“Douglas!”

“Not to worry, my captain, my work record is as pure as driven snow nowadays,” Douglas assured him.

“It had better be!”

“Anyway,” Douglas said in a louder voice. “I had a drink in the hotel bar to both fortify and console myself, as one does in times of great personal distress.”

“Drinking? Before a flight?” Martin was frowning at him again. Douglas quelled him with a glare for interrupting again.

“I went up to my room, to get the _regulated amount of sleep_ before a flight, Captain Perfect.” Martin sat back, arms crossed. Douglas dropped his voice to a sombre tone. “I was simply getting ready for bed, brushing my teeth when - it happened.”

Arthur was agog. “What? Was someone waiting behind the shower curtain and leapt out to stab you?”

“No! This wasn’t like some cheap horror film,” Douglas said. “Though that would have been exciting.”

“I’ll bet on an aneurism for the next cheese tray,” Martin said. Obviously the _Captain Perfect_ shot rankled.

“No,” Douglas said, expelling a disgusted breath.

“Heart attack,” Carolyn guessed, looking him up and down.

Douglas pinned her with a minatory glare. “I’ll have you know, I was in prime physical condition for a man my age, fondness for fine wines and cuisine aside! Now, are you done, or can I finish?”

She gestured like a grand lady. “My apologies. Please, do go on.”

“Yes, sorry, Douglas.” Martin did look sorry, the great softy. “You did die, after all. It must have been terrible.”

“You have no idea,” Douglas said. “Well. They do say it’s the small things that get you in the end. I turned and my foot went out from under me. Water on the tiles. I hit my head on the lip of the toilet. One traumatic brain injury courtesy of a depressed skull fracture later, there I went. I never woke up again. Alive, anyway.”

There was silence. “Wow,” Arthur said. “That’s too bad, Douglas.” His face brightened. "Hey, it's almost what I guessed all those months back! Do I win?"

"Why not, Mr Shappey," Douglas said.

"Brilliant! Not about your dying, though, that was not-brilliant."

Douglas looked about, waiting for more expressions of sympathy. His brows snapped together when Carolyn smothered a giggle. His scowl deepened when he saw Martin’s lips twitch.

“What the hell - I _died_ , you sods! Alone on a bathroom floor in bloody Paris! What’s so amusing about that?”

“Sorry! Sorry,” Martin said. “You’re right, absolutely right, Nothing funny about it. At all.” His mouth twitched again but he clenched his jaw.

“Oh, can I ask a question?” Arthur said. “Was the toothbrush still in your mouth? Because that sounds like it might be icky. Did you Rise still tasting mint?”

Martin immediately bit his bottom lip but a strange whining noise escaped him.

“No, it’s not the toothbrush that’s important,” Carolyn corrected her son. A gurgle of laughter muddled her words. “It’s the toilet. Done in by the - by the _bog_!” The only word Douglas could best use to describe what came next from her evil mouth next was _cackle._

“Towel about his middle,” Martin suggested and then clapped a hand over his traitorous mouth, eyes swimming. Arthur was confused, looking from them to Douglas but beginning to smile.

Miffed, Douglas snapped, “Well, lovely. I’m so glad my death by cranial hemorrhaging amuses you!”

“No, no, it’s tragic. Tragic,” Carolyn managed, trying to control herself.

“For want of a bathmat,” Martin said.

“The great Douglas Richardson was lost!” Carolyn finished and they both dissolved into whoops, Martin bent over and holding his stomach. Arthur started to giggle as their unhinged hilarity infected him.

“You horrible, horrible, unsympathetic miscreants,” Douglas growled. “See if I ever tell you a touching and deeply personal story again.” He sighed and let it go. He was all too aware of how ridiculous the end of his life was. Rather fitting, in its way. “Ha, ha. It’s all fun and games until you find yourself staring up at the inside of a coffin.”

Lisa’s brows had climbed into her hairline while she watched this sideshow, but she only said, “Well, thank you for sharing, Douglas. Now, looking back on it, how does it make you feel, knowing your life was cut short -”

Carolyn’s phone rang. She swallowed the rest of her laughter. “Sorry. I have to take this.” She stood and moved away to talk.

Douglas took a moment to think about the question - his life, the myriad mistakes he’d made both alive and undead, how close he’d come to wasting even the second. Remembering the precipice he’d teetered on the day he’d bought a sheep’s brain, he shuddered slightly. “Well. All things considered…” He looked at Carolyn, Arthur, Martin, thought of his daughter. “It was for the best,” he finished and meant it.

“Really.” Lisa’s brows lifted again. “That’s an unexpected attitude to take. But good.”

“I hate to interrupt, but we need to cut our session short today,” Carolyn said, returning and slipping her phone into her bag. “The ministry calls and we must answer. Well. It’s been quite enjoyable, hasn’t it? My apologies, Lisa. The same time next week? Grand.”

“Not a problem,” Lisa said. “Arthur, Douglas, I’d like you to consider my question in the intervening time. I look forward to seeing you all again. Quite the unusual group!” She smiled. “Affirmations before you go?”

“Sure thing, Mrs Hodges!” Arthur said. He started, Douglas a reluctant beat behind. “ _‘I am a Partially Deceased Syndrome sufferer_ …’”

Martin joined them on the last phrase. “And what they did in their untreated state is not their fault."

“Yeah! Thanks, Skip.”

“What he said,” Douglas agreed.

“I don’t know,” Martin said. “I mean, I know it’s a good phrase, but, but it makes them sound, er…”

“Pitiable?” Carolyn said.

“Well, yeah. Like they’re suffering all the time. Miserable.” Martin wrinkled his brow at Arthur. “You’re not, are you?”

“Not me, Skip!” Arthur said. “Life’s just about as brilliant now as it was before!”

Douglas tapped his lip. “You’re right, Martin. It could be improved. I think we need our own version.”

“Um.” Arthur screwed up his face in thought. “What we did in our untreated state -”

“Jettison that,” Carolyn said. “What you are, right now…”

“What… we all are? Now?” Martin caught Douglas’ eyes and flushed. “Well, all of us have come a long way, we’re all different now from what we were before. Even us living people.”

“What and who we are now,” Douglas began.

“Can only makes us stronger?” Martin suggested.

“Gives us a second chance!” Arthur said.

“Mm. Not a bad start,” Douglas allowed. “Still needs work, though.” As they all did, he and Arthur and Martin and Carolyn. Well, it wasn’t the end of the world to understand that.

Lisa was scribbling a note. “I like this, it’s very positive and productive. Good idea, Martin.”

“Minions mine,” Carolyn said. “Business calls.”

Douglas got up from his seat with a relieved sigh. “Back to the old grind, chaps.”

“Can’t wait,” Martin said. Douglas rolled his eyes. Of course Martin was eager to get back to his beloved flying, not that Douglas begrudged him that singular happiness.

“We’d better hurry, then,” he said. “Arthur and I need to get our slap on in time to placate the warmbloods.”

“Hey!” Martin bumped his shoulder as they moved towards the door. “I resemble that remark.”

“I know. I’m such a rotter, aren’t I?” Douglas shot back with a smirk. Martin choked a laugh.

“Douglas! You - you can’t _say_ stuff like that!”

“And yet...” Douglas drawled. “It’s as if you don’t even know me, Martin.”

They exchanged a grin. Carolyn made an impatient noise.

“Best hurry. Sounds like a category 1 storm gusting to two,” Douglas remarked.

“We’re coming,” Martin said, and they all left together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to my beta, alltoseek, alcyone, and madnina for being champs while I dithered on this, feeding ideas and correcting the appalling typos. Also special thanks to flatmate feikoi who came up with the frame for the story when I was short on ideas.
> 
> Extra thanks as well to my older sister Kirsten, who is a funeral director and thus was able to give me very good, realistic details about body preparation in different circumstances. It's thanks to her the tiny details in the first chapter scene with the Rising in the graveyard are correct. Our Twitter exchange before we took it to email must have been appalling to my followers (sorry!) and the pics she sent along most useful, and non-gory as I requested. Thank you!
> 
> I guess if one wanted, you could slip on slash glasses for Douglas and Martin, but that was never the point of this fic, so squint hard. It's true that they friends, and pretty good ones at that by the end of my story.
> 
> And thanks to everyone who read, commented, Kudo'ed and subscribed, it means a lot to me!


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